


The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn

by WildnessBecomesYou



Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe, Angst, Cancer, Character Death, Christmas, F/F, Fear, Fluff, Grief, Guns, Healing, Historical context, Injury, Murder, Nightmares, PTSD, Smut, love language: acts of service, love language: gift giving, multi-chapter, remission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:27:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 88,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27357988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildnessBecomesYou/pseuds/WildnessBecomesYou
Summary: We all know the Mildred Ratched ofOne Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.This isn't that story. This story ends differently.
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched
Comments: 484
Kudos: 336





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The long-awaited longfic!! Welcome! 
> 
> A few things before we begin: 
> 
> 1\. The current tags are for chapter one. I’ll add tags as necessary as we go along, and label which tags apply to the chapter in the notes for that chapter. For example, relevant tags here are: angst, fluff, ptsd, nightmares
> 
> 2\. There will be major character death here, in terms of the series. Gwendolyn and Mildred will not die. There’s one character that’s on my metaphorical hit list, and another I genuinely do not think I can save for what I want to happen to work. I will change the warning to include Major Character Death when that happens, so please be on the lookout for that, and I will label it in the tags for that chapter too.  
> This chapter includes discussions of Huck's death, so proceed with caution.
> 
> 3\. I have no clue at all what my upload schedule will be. I hope it will be every few days, but I can’t really guarantee that? Sorry for the inconsistency in advance. Let’s call it spontaneity? This is especially true given, you know, tomorrow. Hopefully I'll be back soon, but I may need a few days to hide and cry. I guess we'll see. (Please, kids, take care of yourselves, and don't be afraid to reach out.)  
> I also have no idea how many chapters this will be, just know where it’s going. 
> 
> 4\. PLEASE GOD LISTEN TO NATURE BOY BY NAT KING COLE. I was listening to a "40s Jazz” station while driving when this song came up and I squealed because I love Nat King Cole. And I’d just finished Ratched recently. And then I got home and my dad and I had Mexican food and margaritas and I complained that I didn’t like where I knew the story was going for my poor darling lesbians and he looked at me over his beans and rice and went “Why don’t you just… write a different ending?”  
> So here we are. You can thank Nat King Cole and my father for this.
> 
> [ Here's Nat. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZpF1J9FnD4E&ab_channel=NatKingCole-Topic)
> 
> Check in with me when you finish. I love you all, and I'm excited for us to begin this journey together :)

_There was a boy_  
_A very strange, enchanted boy_  
_They say he wandered very far_  
_Very far, over land and sea_  
_A little shy and sad of eye_  
_But very wise was he_

_And then one day_  
_One magic day he passed my way_  
_While we spoke of many things_  
_Fools and Kings_  
_This he said to me:_

_"The greatest thing you'll ever learn_  
_Is just to love and be loved in return"_

_"The greatest thing you'll ever learn_  
_Is just to love and be loved in return"_

_…_

_"The greatest thing you'll ever learn_  
_Is just to love and be loved in return"_

Gwendolyn watches Mildred hang up the phone, her skirt hem shaking slightly the only hint that the woman is anxious. She’d only caught the end of the phone call— “Because I am coming for you, Edmund.”— and one great heave of Mildred’s shoulders before the woman went back to staring out over the sea as she calmed herself.

Gwendolyn wishes she had the same grace, the same ability to look as calm. And normally she knows their roles would be reversed; she would be holding herself steady, glaring at the retreating back of the host, her hand on Mildred’s thigh as she trembled. Instead, her knees bounce under the table as she hopes Betsy doesn’t notice. 

Mildred seems to glance over her shoulder— her shoulders are hunched, and Gwendolyn doesn’t like that, she’d gotten so confident in herself, started to stand so tall— before she steels herself, pushes off the wall. She strides past the table with the phone in her hand, past Gwendolyn’s soft “Mildred…” and returns the phone to the host with a quiet “Thank you.” 

Betsy is still humming away over her fruits when Mildred sits down in her chair. Gwendolyn risks brushing her fingers over Mildred’s knee. Mildred grabs at those fingers, squeezing tightly, and when Mildred finally looks at her Gwendolyn’s heart breaks at the fear in her eyes. 

No one’s brother should scare them this much.

But Mildred squeezes her fingers, and Gwendolyn offers her a soft little smile, and Mildred straightens up and chases the fear from her own eyes. 

“Who was that?” Betsy asks jovially. 

“Edmund.”

Betsy’s fork drops.

Gwendolyn squeezes Betsy’s hand without thinking, then hands the fork back to her. She knows that look of fear, and she hates to see it mirrored in someone else. As she looks between Mildred’s determination and Betsy’s panic, she can’t help but think— 

_How the hell am I going to protect these women?_

Betsy had planned to stay a week. But she can’t get a hold of Louise, and the worry doesn’t leave her that Edmund might have done something to her friend. So Mildred helps her pack, and when Betsy falls to her bed and whimpers, Mildred holds a hand out to Gwendolyn. The two of them hold Betsy. 

“Fucking men,” Betsy hisses through barely held-back tears. 

“Fucking men,” Gwendolyn agrees, tucking the trembling nurse under her chin. Mildred stays silent, fixing Gwendolyn with a look that almost scares her. 

Mildred is going to do something, and Gwendolyn has a very vague idea, and frankly it frightens her. 

And she tells Mildred as much, as they’re getting ready for bed, Betsy snuggled down in her own duvet in the apartment next door. It’s a hushed confession. She doesn’t want to argue, doesn’t want to wake Betsy when the woman has to drive so far the next morning. 

“I’m not going to do anything, Gwendolyn.” Mildred’s voice is just as hushed. Her face is steely. 

But she comes when Gwendolyn holds a hand out to her from their little kitchen where she’s simmering chocolate in milk. She dumps another spoonful of sugar in as Mildred tucks herself in to Gwendolyn’s side. Gwendolyn presses a quick kiss to her forehead before she says, “Because I’m coming for you, Edmund?” 

Mildred tenses. “I— I’m not—“ 

Gwendolyn shakes her head and stirs the pot. “You are. You’re planning something.” 

Mildred’s fingers press against Gwendolyn’s sides. She holds tight, tighter than she has in a while, and Gwendolyn aches with it. 

“I’m not going to leave you, sweetness,” she murmurs. 

All the fight goes out of Mildred. She sags enough against Gwendolyn that she turns away from the pot and towards Mildred, scooping her up. Mildred clings to her, pressing her face into Gwendolyn’s neck, breathing artificially steady. 

“But I don’t want you to leave me either.”

Mildred tenses. “Gwendolyn.” She sounds like she’s going to start on some explanation, some tirade where she decides she’s no good for Gwendolyn, that she’s no good for anyone, that she ought to just go take care of her brother and then take care of herself. 

“Don’t,” Gwendolyn says, and it comes out far more broken than she would like it to. “Don’t you dare, Mildred. Don’t you dare think of leaving me, not now.” 

Mildred, to her credit, only shifts against Gwendolyn, pressing her ear closer to Gwendolyn’s heart. “It’s not safe,” she breathes. “I’m not safe, not anymore, maybe I never was—“ 

“My love,” Gwendolyn hisses, and the hot chocolate is boiling more than it should, really, but she can’t let Mildred go. “You are the safest thing I’ve ever known.” 

Mildred shakes her head, but she doesn’t say no with words. She doesn’t try to lie, and Gwendolyn is grateful for it. She’s not sure she can stand lies right now, not when the terror is swirling in around them, ghosts of the past tapping at their windows and pulling at the curtains. 

Eventually Mildred pulls back just enough to turn their little stove off, push at the liquid with the spoon that’s been left on the counter. Gwendolyn doesn’t let her go— maybe can’t let her go, she honestly doesn’t know anymore. There’s a moment that drags on just too long, before Mildred can bring herself to say anything. 

“He almost shot Betsy, Gwendolyn.” 

“I know.”

“No, he almost— he was my _brother_.” It’s watery, and thick, and it hurts Gwendolyn. It always does to hear Mildred like this. It’s always painful to hear the ways Mildred has been wronged. “And he almost shot Betsy in the face, he pointed a shotgun right at her, and if he ever did that you— I’d— I’d _die_ , Gwendolyn, it would kill me.” 

Gwendolyn can’t promise her that won’t happen. She can’t tell her that Edmund won’t come for them— everything she knows, from newspapers and gossip and stories from Mildred, tells her Edmund is persistent and vengeance driven. And for some god-awful reason, he had decided Mildred had wronged him. 

“I love you,” she says instead, and it launches a sob from Mildred’s lips. “I don’t know what we’re going to do. But I love you, and I’m not letting you go.” 

“I can’t lose you,” Mildred sobs. “Please, don’t—“

“I won’t. I won’t.” She wants to remind Mildred she’s already been shot and survived that. She wants to remind her that she’s nearly beaten cancer, now, they’re so close to the tumor being gone. But the levity in those statements has no place here.

Instead, she tightens her arms around Mildred. She pulls her closer, wishing she could get close enough to take her pain. Mildred takes shallow, shuddering breaths. They breathe each other in and wait for the hot chocolate to cool from scalding. 

And then there’s a scream, and Mildred springs away from Gwendolyn, towards the bed, before she stops in confusion. She looks back to Gwendolyn with her eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, a question forming on her lips. 

“No,” is the wail that comes from the apartment next door, and Gwendolyn is moving before she can even speak. Mildred is hot on her heels, fingers brushing at her sleep shirt, like she’s going to try and pull Gwendolyn away. 

“Betsy!” Gwendolyn calls as she pushes the door open. The woman is huddled in on herself, a dark ring of sweat around the back of her own sleep shirt. Her chest heaves, her breaths uneven and painful, and Gwendolyn steps behind Mildred to close her door. 

Mildred is by Betsy’s side in a moment. Betsy scrabbles for her hand and Mildred takes it easily, eyes fixed on Betsy’s face. 

“He— he ran off with— with the woman who sh-sh-shot Huck—“ 

Gwendolyn watches Mildred’s eyes close. She knows they’re hiding tears. She remembers Mildred coming home, walking like a zombie, eyes downcast— and she’d been ready for it. She’d opened her arms and let Mildred wail, and then she’d noticed that the wails felt _wrong,_ and Mildred had been trying to tell her something. She couldn’t, but she’d been trying. And Gwendolyn had waited, had shushed her, until Mildred was able to tell her that everything had gone wrong, that Edmund was gone and Huck was dead. 

Huck was dead, shot in the face, after surviving everything else he’d been through. The only person Mildred implicitly trusted at that hospital was dead, and for all intents and purposes it had been her brother’s fault. 

“He’s not here,” Mildred says, and it’s that forced evenness again, and she holds out an arm to Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn moves towards the two women, planting herself next to Mildred as Betsy tips forward and wails into Mildred’s shoulder. She rubs wide, soothing circles over the woman’s back. “He’s not here, and you’re in Mexico, where you’re safe. That’s the sea. Can you hear the sea?” 

“I can’t,” Betsy wails. 

“Can you open the window?” Mildred breathes to Gwendolyn. She nods, drags her hand across Betsy’s back as she rises to follow directions. “There, listen again, Betsy, do you hear the ocean?” 

Betsy heaves in another breath, her eyes squeezed shut as she holds her breath and listens. “Yes.”

“Good. Can’t hear it like that back home, can you?”

Gwendolyn returns to Mildred’s side, almost surprised when Betsy reaches for her hand. But she takes it, squeezes, offers her a gentle smile. 

“I’m sorry, I must have woken you both.” She’s already shaking her head at herself, her free hand dragging down over her face. 

Mildred swats her hands away, brushes her fingers against Betsy’s cheeks to clear the tears there. “We weren’t asleep. It’s alright, Betsy.”

It takes Betsy a while longer to feel stable. She keeps apologizing, and Gwendolyn and Mildred keep rebuffing it, and when she cries over the memory of Huck stepping forward, always so brave and so caring and so _Huck_ , Mildred squeezes her hand while Gwendolyn holds Betsy to her chest. 

“I’m so sorry,” Betsy sobs. 

“None of that,” Mildred murmurs. 

“No, I— if I hadn’t told him, about our plan, he wouldn’t be after you, and it’s my fault and I’m so—“ she chokes, swallows as Gwendolyn rocks her, “Sorry.” 

“He’d already left me behind,” Mildred tries to soothe. “He already thought I was out to kill him. Once I left the hospital, after the governor forced our hands, he thought I was against him. He already didn’t trust me, Betsy, this isn’t your fault.” 

Betsy sobs, and Mildred practically crawls into Gwendolyn’s lap to wrap her arms around Betsy. Gwendolyn rocks them both, tries to drown out the feelings of fear and grief as she brushes their tears away with her fingers. 

Eventually Betsy starts to droop into sleep again, and Mildred asks Gwendolyn to lay her down. Betsy whimpers a little, but they tuck her in, promise to be right next door in the morning for breakfast before she leaves.

Gwendolyn asks to hold Mildred, their hot chocolate forgotten, teeth brushed and faces washed. Mildred crawls into her arms and under the sheets, tucks her face under Gwendolyn’s chin. Another quiet moment passes. 

“I love you, Gwendolyn.”

It’s so quiet Gwendolyn barely hears it. But the second Mildred speaks, her ears always hone in on the sound, and she listens, listens well. “I love you, my darling girl.” 

They drift into sleep, and it feels to Mildred like all that keeps the threat at bay are the gauzy curtains at the doors. She tries not to think about how she could have been overseas, with the boys of the 24th in North Korea, patching up wounds and holding hands. They’ve been there for weeks now, and the news never seems to get better. Even July 4th had felt bittersweet. 

She pushes the thought away as she drifts towards sleep. She has a duty to Gwendolyn, now. She has a love and a purpose. 

“Hey,” Gwendolyn says sleepily, “don’t fall asleep thinking about it. You’ll give yourself another nightmare.” 

Mildred tilts her head up and presses a kiss to Gwendolyn’s neck, but doesn’t say anything. How can she not think about it? How can she push away the image of Edmund driving away with Charlotte, of police swarming the lawn, screaming and shouting at each other in panic? How can she forget the way the panic sank in her gut when she realized neither Betsy nor Huck was anywhere to be found? Or the way some policeman she didn’t know held her back from the door, ignoring her cries of “let me through, where’s Betsy? Where’s Huck? What happened to them?”

She can’t forget screaming for them. She can’t forget the relief of Betsy stumbling out, weak on her feet, Mildred rushing to catch her. She can’t forget the broken “Huck—“ that came from Betsy, the tears tracked over her cheeks with mascara, a stretcher emerging from the doors behind her. She can’t forget dragging Betsy with her, demanding to see the body, or the drop in her stomach when the sheet was lifted. 

Huck hadn’t even looked like Huck. His face was wrong. No smile, no sparkle. 

She shudders. “Come back to me,” she hears, and there’s a warm hand against her cheek. “Where are you, sweetness, are you here?” 

“I’m here,” Mildred answers finally. “I— I got lost in the past.” 

“That’s alright,” Gwendolyn says, and Mildred’s heart softens at her patience. “Get some sleep with me.” 

Mildred snuggles closer, and Gwendolyn squeezes around her shoulders, gently guides Mildred’s face back to her chest. She listens to Gwendolyn’s heartbeat, and she thinks Gwendolyn is still awake when she drifts off.

She’s woken by a terrible sound. Gwendolyn is whimpering, and it’s not a pleasant kind, not one she wants to hear. She wants it to stop. 

She’s finally able to push herself up and above Gwendolyn when the woman starts _wailing_ , shooting panic through her. “Gwendolyn? Gwendolyn!” She shakes at Gwendolyn’s shoulders as she braces herself up above Gwendolyn. “Sweetheart, wake up!” 

Gwendolyn’s eyes shoot open and meet hers, and for a moment Mildred is relieved. She brings her hands to Gwendolyn’s arms, almost sighs, until— 

Gwendolyn sobs. 

“Gwendolyn!” She tightens her hands against Gwendolyn as the strawberry blonde reaches up, swallowing rapidly around her own tears, fingers brushing through Mildred’s hair. “Goodness, Gwendolyn,” she says shakily, trying to keep herself steady. “What—“ 

Gwendolyn pulls Mildred down against her suddenly, and she lets out a little “oof!” She’s nearly suffocated by Gwendolyn’s grip, and it doesn’t escape her that Gwendolyn is still actively crying, still shaking with terror. So she pushes herself up, bracing herself up on her elbows, trying to keep herself as attached to Gwendolyn as she can while still looking at her face. “What happened?” She keeps her voice soft, even as Gwendolyn shakes her head in refusal. “I woke up and you were— I mean really, you were wailing. What happened?” 

Gwendolyn closes her eyes below Mildred and breathes in deeply, almost painfully. Her eyes burst open almost immediately, and she traces her fingers along Mildred’s lips. She gives in to Gwendolyn just a little, pressing little kisses to her fingers. But she’s starting to grow quite worried. What won’t Gwendolyn tell her? 

“I had a— a nightmare, you were— he—“ she chokes off, and Mildred feels the fight go out of her. Oh, a nightmare. “Let me hold you, please.” 

Her voice cracks on the begging, and Mildred gives in, rests herself against Gwendolyn. “It’s alright,” she murmurs as she runs her fingers over Gwendolyn’s sides. “I’m here.” 

Gwendolyn sounds so broken as she tightens her arms around Mildred. “You weren’t. You were gone.”

“I’m here,” Mildred insists. She’s hoping Gwendolyn will believe her, that if she says it enough times it’ll be real, just like Gwendolyn does for her. 

“It was so real.” Mildred can feel her trying to swallow the fear. 

“It’s not real anymore.” She keeps running her hands up and down Gwendolyn’s sides. Gwendolyn starts to breathe a little more steadily, and Mildred turns to press a kiss to Gwendolyn’s jaw. “He won’t take me from you, I promise.” She moves her hands to Gwendolyn’s arms, running them down and back up, before sliding her hands under Gwendolyn and propping herself up again. “Even if he drove all night, he wouldn’t be here yet. We could pack our bags, get on a ferry, drive into Mexico City for a few days.” 

Gwendolyn seems baffled— she’s bleary enough in the morning before her coffee, and waking her up suddenly like this can’t help. “The— my treatment?” 

“Then we’ll stay right here,” Mildred rushes. She’ll do whatever Gwendolyn wants, do whatever it takes to keep Gwendolyn safe and happy, the same way Gwendolyn has done for her. “And I’ll make sure we’re safe. And neither of us will go anywhere.” 

Gwendolyn shivers, still holding tight to her. “I don’t want to lose you.” She sounds so small, so unlike the woman she’s used to waking beside. 

“You won’t,” she assures Gwendolyn. Her voice has gone deep, darker than usual, and she hopes Gwendolyn isn’t scared of it, or her. “I’ll take care of it.” 

Gwendolyn sighs, almost relieved, turning her head to ask for a kiss. Mildred gives it to her, slow, gentle, as warm as she can make it. She lets Gwendolyn cling to her. She clings to Gwendolyn a little. 

“I’ll take care of it,” she repeats. She’ll repeat it as much as it takes. 

Eventually, they rise. Gwendolyn follows her around rather than going out to their patio, and Mildred doesn’t mind it, pulls her closer and wraps Gwendolyn’s arms around her middle. It’s harder to walk this way, but she doesn’t care. 

A gentle knock on the door interrupts them, and they both freeze. 

“It’s just me,” Betsy calls out. Their shoulders come down and Gwendolyn parts from Mildred, pulls Betsy into their apartment for a hug. Betsy sags against her. 

“I tried calling again,” she says. “No answer. God, what if— what if she’s hurt and it’s because of me?” 

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” Gwendolyn murmurs, still holding on to her. Betsy looks to Mildred, and Mildred shakes her head. 

“You can’t,” she echoes. “Stay for some coffee. And just a little food. You’ll need it.” 

So they take their cups and plates out to the patio; Betsy sits in Mildred’s usual chair, and Mildred waits for Gwendolyn to sit comfortably before she settles herself there. Betsy watches them fondly. Gwendolyn feeds her danishes to Mildred, and Mildred feeds hers to Gwendolyn, and they drink out of their own cups because Mildred cannot stand black coffee first thing. They distract Betsy with talk of beaches and things they’ll do next time, and when Betsy is finished, each woman holds her for a long while. 

“You call us when you stop somewhere,” Gwendolyn says seriously, holding her at an arm’s length to duck and look into her eyes. “I don’t care if it’s a motel or a gas station or if you somehow make it all the way home. You call us, okay?” 

Betsy nods, pursing her lips against tears threatening her. Gwendolyn deposits her suitcase into the trunk and waits for Mildred to finish her hushed conversation with Betsy. 

They stand side by side as they wave Betsy off, watch until her car disappears. They brush their pinkies against each other’s as they walk back to the apartment— the place is a bit of a mess, and Gwendolyn sets about washing dishes immediately as Mildred scoops up clothes and towels where they’ve been left. 

It’s quiet for a bit, before Mildred says, “We’re moving your appointment up.” 

“I don’t think we can just tell the cancer to be gone faster,” Gwendolyn responds, glancing over her shoulder as she scrubs at last night’s abandoned hot chocolate. 

Mildred’s face is almost steely again, that determination in the face of god-knows-what’s-coming returning from the early morning. “No,” she agrees. “I’m hopeful we won’t have to wait.” 

We. Gwendolyn smiles at it, even after all this time. She doesn’t know if she believes it as well as Mildred does, but she’s willing to follow the plan. 

“Shall I call when they open?”

“Let me,” Mildred says, comes over to kiss her properly, laundry basket on her hip. “I have a couple other calls I want to make.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwendolyn and Mildred get some news. Good news first, scary news second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relevant tags/content warnings: Angst, fluff, cancer, remission, guns, fear
> 
> Okay so. We all know shit's stressful right now. Here's a reminder to breathe, roll your shoulders, and drink some non-alcoholic liquid if you haven't recently. Please try to eat something. I love you.
> 
> It's been a while since I've lived around folks speaking a Mexican dialect of Spanish, and I am way more familiar with Cuban/Venezuelan Spanish, so apologies if I got anything wrong! Also, fun fact, telegrams were being used up to the late 70's, although they became virtually non-existent in the 60's. 
> 
> I'd tell you this fic is gonna get less stressful, but I honestly can't, so I'll just remind you instead that Sugar High is set after the events of this fic, and is meant as a direct follow-up. Okay? They're gonna be okay.

Mildred holds Gwendolyn’s hand at the doctor’s office. 

It’s one of the good things about Mexico. No one ever judges them for it, here, not in the oncologist’s waiting room. Mildred holds her hand, and they both bounce their knees as they wait for results. It’s been less than a month than the last x-ray, with barely a dot’s worth of tumor left in her chest. The doctor didn’t think it would be gone yet, but Mildred had insisted they come in today to check. 

Gwendolyn wishes she had that optimism, that absolute certainty that she’d be done with this whole business. She likes Mexico, she really does, but she would trade all of Mexico to be free, to be with Mildred. 

“Briggs?” 

Her head snaps up from where she’s been staring at her and Mildred’s fingers tangled together. The nurse smiles at them both. 

“We’ve got your results. If you’d like to come with me?”

The nurse always smiles. It’s always the same smile, so Gwendolyn can’t tell whether this is a good thing or a bad thing, whether the news will make her smile or crumble or walk through the door again with nothing at all changed. She stands anyways, hand sliding away from Mildred’s.

“Oh,” the nurse adds as she turns, “Miss Ratched could come with you, if you like.” 

Mildred stands immediately, takes her hand back, squeezes it and offers Gwendolyn a gentle smile. It’s a timid one, but it’s there nonetheless, and she tries to smile back as they follow after the nurse. 

Doctor De la Peña smiles at them as they enter. “Missus Briggs, Nurse Ratched,” she says, gesturing for them to sit. Her accent is so gentle, so reassuring, and Gwendolyn appreciates the fact that she’s always the one delivering the news. “How is my star patient?”

“Hoping for good news,” Gwendolyn admits. Mildred squeezes her hand. 

“And how are you feeling?”

Gwendolyn sighs. “There are days when I’m tired, but I genuinely feel so much better than when I first saw you. I feel…” Mildred squeezes her hand again, and she glances over at her, and her chest fills with the warmth of the Mexico sun. “I feel strong.” 

Doctor De la Peña glances at Mildred, who nods. When Mildred comes with Gwendolyn, she always confirms any quality-of-life answers with Mildred. It’s charming, really, and another reason Gwendolyn quite likes the doctor. It validates Mildred, it validates Gwendolyn bringing her.

“That’s good,” the doctor smiles. She sits at her desk, sorts through folders for a moment. She finds a folder, lets out a soft “ah!” and holds it in the air, smiling at Gwendolyn and Mildred. “This just came in.” She lowers her gaze and traces her fingers over the white lines of Gwendolyn’s ribs. 

This is something Mildred likes about the doctor; she treats Gwendolyn’s body like it is something precious, something to care for. Gwendolyn supposes she treats all her patients this way— it only matters to Mildred, though, how Gwendolyn is treated. 

Mildred rubs her thumb over Gwendolyn’s knuckles. Gwendolyn wishes she could kiss Mildred’s fingers. 

“Hala,” the doctor breathes, and Mildred’s head snaps up. Doctor De la Peña holds up her hand as she fumbles for glasses in a drawer. Gwendolyn can’t look at her, can’t breathe, good God what if this has all gone wrong— 

“Ha _la!_ ” 

It’s delighted, this time, and she rises from her seat, walks around her desk and hands the x-ray to Mildred. She kneels in front of Gwendolyn, and it’s been so long since the doctor’s done this, since the first time they’d met, since the doctor had prescribed mistletoe and another course of chemo. But she’s smiling, and Gwendolyn’s heart is pounding so hard she can’t hear anything but her heart. 

She reads the doctor’s lips. Mildred gasps beside her. 

“The cancer is gone, Missus Briggs.” 

She hears her name, a raspy “Gwendolyn,” and suddenly the world is very loud, every sound echoing in her head. 

“What?” 

Doctor De la Peña takes the x-ray from Mildred, slides it gently into Gwendolyn’s hands. She points to an empty place in Gwendolyn’s lung. “It used to be here. Do you see it?” Gwendolyn shakes her head, feeling tears well up in her eyes. “Because it’s gone. Todo se fue. Your tumor is gone.” 

Gwendolyn covers her mouth with a hand, holds back the sound of a sob. Mildred hugs her, tucking her face into Gwendolyn’s shoulder— it’s maybe too familiar for this moment, but Gwendolyn grips at her with one arm, and the doctor squeezes her knees with a smile, and Gwendolyn shakes. 

She feels like she’s been holding her body tight for two and a half years, for nine-hundred-and-some days. All that tension has released, and she shakes with the effort of holding herself together. She can barely process anything doctor De la Peña says after that, hopes Mildred is paying attention as her hand lands in both of Mildred’s. All she can do is stare at the x-ray, where her bones stand out clear white and there’s no formless mass to haunt her breathing. 

She’s conscious as Mildred drives them home, but she’s still not fully in her body. Mildred brings her inside, a gentle hand at her elbow, and Gwendolyn can hardly breathe. Their door closes behind them, and Mildred is by her side in an instant, Gwen’s face in her hands, their foreheads pressed together. 

“You’re free,” Mildred breathes, tears in her eyes and a grin on her face, “my love, we’re _free_.” 

And Gwendolyn breaks, her knees buckling on her, tears of relief spilling over and down her cheeks as she falls. 

Mildred falls with her as they sink into the plush carpet by the fireplace. Her hands stay on Gwendolyn’s face, and their tears mingle as she kisses Gwendolyn, pulls them to lying on the floor, rolls them over. Her weight above Gwendolyn is grounding, and Gwendolyn holds her close, cradles Mildred between her legs, wraps her arms around Mildred’s back. 

“I love you,” she sobs, and it’s almost broken, it’s a desperate sound, the last vestiges of fear leaving her body as she cries. Mildred trembles against her, fingers almost painfully tight at Gwendolyn’s neck and scalp. She sobs and trembles and kisses Gwendolyn like she’s afraid she’ll disappear. 

Gwendolyn isn’t sure how long they spend this way— relief flooding their veins and washing away all the terror they’ve felt, tears cleansing them and turning their kisses salty-sweet— but eventually they still, and Mildred rests her forehead against Gwendolyn’s as she repeats “I love you, Gwendolyn, I love you.” 

She’s helpless to do anything but say it back. 

And then there’s a knock on their door, and the spell is broken. They both freeze. Terror returns to Mildred’s eyes, and Gwendolyn feels her heart sink, and then Mildred’s face turns that steely cold look that Gwendolyn has only seen in the context of hospitals and her brother. 

Mildred rises, goes to their bed, pulls out the suitcase as Gwendolyn pushes herself up. “What—?”

Mildred opens the suitcase and with startling quickness pulls out a gun. She clicks a few bullets into place— when had she bought the thing? When had she bought _bullets_? How long has she been keeping this from Gwendolyn?— and spares Gwendolyn a glance that pins her in place before answering the door. 

“Disculpe, Miss Ratched, but you had a few phone calls while you were away.” 

“Oh,” Mildred says, moving a shoulder in front of the door. She keeps the hand hiding the gun behind the other door, swallows. “Did they leave a message?” 

“Both elected to send telegrams instead,” the attendant says, hands them over. 

“Thank you,” Mildred murmurs, and then the man is gone, and she closes the door and moves back towards the suitcase, emptying her gun with ease as she squints at the telegrams. 

“Mildred,” Gwen breathes, the shock of seeing the damn thing catching up to her. “A _gun_?”

Mildred looks up at her as she slides the bullets back into a box, the gun back into a scarf, both back into the suitcase. “Gwendolyn.” _Not now._

“We will be discussing this,” she returns, and it’s hard to decide whether her voice is angry or terrified, and she’s not sure it really matters which is which. It doesn’t really matter, though, because Mildred’s face softens, and she slides her finger under the seal keeping the first telegram shut. 

She freezes. Gwendolyn forgets about her anger, her fear, comes to her and covers Mildred’s hands in her own. 

It’s from Betsy— thank God, Gwendolyn thinks for a moment, and then she reads. 

_REACHED HOME STOP NO SIGN OF L STOP NO SIGN OF STRUGGLE STOP AM SCARED_

_BETSY BUCKET_

Gwendolyn holds her breath. “She’s alright,” she says, and Mildred looks up at her. 

“Is she?” 

It’s so quiet, muffled by Mildred biting her own lip, and Gwendolyn slips her arm around the younger woman. She pulls her close and presses a kiss to her temple. “She’s a smart cookie, darling, she’ll be alright.” 

Mildred shakes her head, but she sets the telegram down. “Can you…?” 

Gwendolyn takes the other telegram, breaks the seal, tries to keep her breathing even while she opens it. She fails, and she thinks she might faint, and then Mildred is clinging onto her as she sinks towards the bed. 

_RECEIVED PHONE CALL STOP FEAR YOU MAY BE IN DANGER GWENNY STOP WE ARE STAYING WITH FRIENDS OF DOROTHY IN SAFE HOUSE NOW STOP TAKE CARE OF THAT GIRL GWENNY_

_TREVOR BRIGGS_

Mildred takes the telegram, reads it, lips forming around the words and hands trembling. Gwendolyn covers her mouth with her hand, thinks she may be sick, but God— at least Trevor is staying with friends of theirs, with someone who knows how to deal with men who go bump in the night, who is one of _them_ and yet one of the people tasked with persecuting them. Trevor is safe. 

She can almost hear the worry in his voice. “Take care of that girl, Gwenny.” She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath.

The bed shifts and she looks up. Mildred is buckling up her suitcase. 

“What are you doing?”

Mildred doesn’t look up, but she pauses, her eyes closing as tears drop onto the leather. She takes a breath and resumes, pulling the suitcase upwards and off the bed. “I’m leaving.”

“Like hell you are,” Gwendolyn says, half a growl. Mildred shakes her head. “No, Mildred, you’re not leaving.”

“I am, Gwendolyn, please move.” 

And Gwendolyn does move, but not the way Mildred wants her to. She plants her back against their front doors, spreads her arms out like she can hold both closed by sheer force of will. Mildred’s face goes steely again. “You’re not leaving,” she repeats, firm this time even though those tears are back. 

“It’s not safe for me to be here,” Mildred responds. The tone is too familiar, reminds Gwendolyn of the bad part of the night she’d come to Lucia State Hospital, searching for Doctor Hanover and wishing she could hunt Mildred down. It’s almost condescending. “I’ve done my job, you’re in remission, now let me go.” 

“No,” Gwendolyn says, and she’s trying very hard not to yell, because that will shut Mildred down. “No, I will not let you go, I—“ 

Mildred steps forward, and there’s not much distance between them, and a fire starts up in Mildred’s eyes. 

And Gwendolyn can’t do this. Mildred had promised forever, Mildred had been the one to suggest they start running, Mildred had given her everything she thought she never would have, and this isn’t fair. It’s not fair. She breaks with it. 

“Don’t leave me, Mildred, please don’t leave me.” 

She grips at the wood of the doors and tries not to cry as she stares at the floor.

“He’ll kill you, Gwendolyn.”

“No, he won’t—“

“He’ll kill you,” Mildred repeats, and Gwendolyn looks up at her, sees the tears rolling down her cheeks, the way her knuckles have gone white. “He’ll kill you, and Betsy, and Trevor, and everyone I’ve ever loved, until it’s just me, and then he’ll kill me, he won’t stop, Gwendolyn—“ 

Gwendolyn pushes herself forward, forces the suitcase out of Mildred’s hand, wraps her arms so tight around her that she’s afraid she might break. Mildred grips at her, lets her forehead fall to Gwendolyn’s shoulder. 

“We can’t even have one good thing,” she sobs, her hands weakly pounding at Gwendolyn’s back.

“Shh, sweetness, it’s okay,” Gwendolyn breathes into her ear. Mildred shakes her head and sobs. “We’re going to be okay. We could take that ferry, I’ll pack my bag now, we could take that ferry and figure it out from there.”

“Let me go,” Mildred begs, “I’m trying to protect you, I don’t want him to hurt you, please, let me go.”

“I can’t,” Gwendolyn says. “I won’t. I love you, Mildred, and I’m never going to let you go, remember? I promised that, and I keep my promises, I won’t let you break that.” Mildred tries to slap a fist against Gwendolyn’s back, but her hands unfurl, and she sobs instead. “We’re going to figure this out, darling, come on now, help me pack instead.” 

But all Mildred can do is cry until she’s exhausted herself, clinging to Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn settles them both in bed as if it isn’t the middle of the day. As if they have all the time in the world. Mildred cries until she’s begging Gwendolyn not to leave her, instead, and Gwendolyn is making that promise all over again, her lips gentle against Mildred’s skin as she soothes the younger woman. 

Eventually Mildred’s sobs become whimpers, and the whimpers fall into ragged breaths, and the ragged breaths even out with sleep. And Gwendolyn is exhausted, too, and she cannot keep herself awake. She musters enough strength to move the suitcase from the side of the bed, putting it in the kitchen, just beyond the floorboard that always creaks loud enough to wake Gwendolyn up. 

She returns to bed and gathers Mildred back up in her arms. They’ll sleep for a few hours, and when they wake, they’ll make a plan. She’ll calm Mildred as many times as she needs to. They’ll make a plan, whether it’s running or standing their ground, and they’ll do it together. 

They have all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you had trouble reading the telegrams:
> 
> "Reached home. No sign of L [Louise]. No sign of struggle. Am scared.  
> Betsy Bucket" 
> 
> and 
> 
> "Received phone call. Fear you may be in danger, Gwenny. We are staying with friends of Dorothy in safe house now. Take care of that girl, Gwenny.  
> Trevor Briggs"
> 
> Check in below! Keep yourselves safe, babes. I'm right here with you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lesbians have a talk, get a little frisky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relevant tags: angst, fluff, guns, smut, historical context
> 
> Y'all.
> 
> Joe won.
> 
> I wasn't going to write the final scene in this chapter, but then I was standing in a Petsmart buying my cat food because he's a picky bastard, and the manager looked at the cashier and said "Biden won. They called it. He won." And I immediately started shaking and tearing up. And the final scene happened. So, like, thank you, manager at Petsmart, enjoy that last part. 
> 
> Folks, stay safe over the next couple days/weeks/months. Travel together, when you can. I love you all, and this is such good news, so don't let some asshole take this away from you. We've still got work to do, particularly as Americans, and I need y'all around for that, okay? <3 
> 
> There will be more information for you in the ending notes, so check in there. For now, enjoy! :)

Mercifully, Gwendolyn wakes before Mildred. Mildred clings to her in sleep with as much force as she does in the waking world.

At least, Gwendolyn thinks, that means she’s not running away. 

She nuzzles against Mildred, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. She can tell it’s dark outside— the stained glass in their little alcove isn’t lit up, and all she can hear is Mildred’s breathing and the echoes of the ocean. 

Mildred wakes against her with a jerk, somehow clinging tighter. “Hey, it’s alright, I’m here,” Gwendolyn murmurs, and she relaxes enough that she isn’t clawing through the fabric of Gwendolyn’s shirt anymore. She doesn’t speak for a few moments, swallowing down her fear, waiting for her heart to stop trying to claw past her ribs. 

“I can’t think,” Mildred whispers.

She’s shaking, despite the two of them being under the blankets, despite being pressed fully against Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn kisses her forehead again, lips gentle against skin that feels rather chilled despite the warm air. 

“Let’s go for a walk.” Gwendolyn doesn’t know where the suggestion comes from, but as soon as she’s said it, it sounds like a good idea. “We’ll go down to the beach. No one will be there.” 

Mildred nods, and Gwendolyn starts to lift herself up. “Wait,” Mildred rushes, and it sounds desperate, so Gwendolyn freezes. “Just— don’t let go. Please. Please don’t let go.” 

Gwendolyn feels her heart breaking again. “Never, sweetness. We can wait a moment.” She listens to the ocean beyond their apartment walls, listens to Mildred’s controlled breathing, listens for a sign that Mildred is ready. Eventually, Mildred slides her hands into Gwendolyn’s and squeezes. They sit up, and then Gwendolyn crawls backwards off the bed and Mildred follows her. 

Gwendolyn doesn’t let go of Mildred’s hand as she guides her outside. She doesn’t let go when Mildred turns and locks their doors. She doesn’t let go as they walk to the beach, tucking Mildred’s arm under hers as she threads their fingers together. Mildred’s free hand cups at her bicep as her head comes to rest on Gwendolyn’s shoulder. 

Their walk is silent until they reach the beach; there’s no light other than the moon glinting off the sea and the very distant glow of the torches at the resort restaurant. Mildred stops to remove her heels without Gwendolyn reminding her, and despite the ups and downs of the day, it makes Gwendolyn smile. 

She’d been right; there’s no one on this beach. So she uses their joined hands to guide Mildred’s face to hers, presses a gentle kiss to her lips. 

Gwendolyn, as ever, would have been happy with just one kiss, grateful for Mildred’s presence at all, even after two and a half years. But Mildred pushes forward, wraps her arm around Gwendolyn, presses herself closer. She’s insistent and only somewhat desperate now. 

Gwendolyn drinks her in until they run out of air to share and the sound of their breaths outweighs the sound of the waves at their feet. 

“When we go back,” Gwendolyn murmurs, “we’ll pack our bags. We’ll go to Mexico City on that ferry, or wherever you think we should go.”

Mildred shakes her head, and it brushes their noses together. “He’ll find us there. He won’t stop, Gwendolyn, he’ll find us wherever we go.” 

Gwendolyn sighs and pulls back. “Is that why you bought a gun?”

Mildred’s eyes squeeze shut. She grimaces, lowers herself away from Gwendolyn. In the soft light, her face hardens as she turns away, but she doesn’t let go. “I’ve had it a long time,” she says evenly as she takes a step forward. 

“How long?” Gwendolyn follows her. 

She always will, she thinks, but God in heaven, this woman. 

“I bought it shortly after Edmund escaped.” The admission sends Gwendolyn’s head reeling. “I wanted— well, we were coming down here to cure you, and I didn’t know when he’d show up or how—“ she shudders, and Gwendolyn wants to pull her close again. She turns again, her face as set as stone. “I had to protect you, Gwendolyn. I’m not sorry.” 

Gwendolyn rubs at her forehead with the back of the hand that holds her shoes. “Why didn’t you tell me, Mildred?” 

“Tell you what? That I was terrified? That I was convinced my brother— someone I’d nearly lost you for, someone who almost killed you, Gwendolyn, he—“ 

“That was Dolly,” Gwendolyn reminds her. It’s an instinct to do so, at this point. Mildred winces. 

“Fine, Dolly shot you, but Gwendolyn, you almost died.” She stops walking and stares up at the moon, and her eyes shine like the stars. “I held you as you bled out, Gwendolyn, and I have never been so fucking scared.” 

Gwendolyn tries to pull her close, but she’s rooted to the spot. “Mildred.”

As soon as Mildred looks at Gwendolyn, there are tears spilling from her eyes. She lets Gwendolyn pull her in this time, her voice little more than a whimper. “I’ve watched you be shot once, I can’t do it again. I can’t live without you.”

“Mildred,” Gwendolyn breathes, and her voice breaks with it. “I just— you should have told me.”

“You’d have hated it,” Mildred says, thunking her forehead against Gwendolyn’s chest as if she can force the anxiety out that way. “More than you do now.” 

Gwendolyn doesn’t respond to that, just holds Mildred’s head to her, stops her from smacking her brain around any more. 

“Are you mad?” 

She sounds so small, and it pains Gwendolyn. “A little,” she admits. “But mostly that you didn’t tell me. That you felt you could tell me everything else, but not this.” 

“I’m not as brave as you. I can’t be as strong as you. I just want to protect you.”

Gwendolyn tugs her back slightly by the hair, presses a kiss to her lips. Mildred whimpers against her. “I love you, Mildred.” Their lips brush together as she says it. “We’ll figure this out. We’ll batten down the hatches, we’ll keep each other safe, I promise.”

Something splashes in the water and they jump, springing apart. Mildred is frantic, grasping wildly for Gwendolyn’s hand in the darkness, scanning over the ocean. 

A bird lifts out of the waves, carrying a fish in it’s claws, and they both breathe a sigh of relief. 

Mildred finds Gwendolyn’s hand and nearly crushes it. Gwendolyn can practically feel her heartbeat in Mildred’s fingers. 

When they don’t feel breathless anymore, Gwendolyn takes a step forward and pulls Mildred with her. They walk quietly for a while.

Eventually, Mildred speaks. “It’s not fair,” she starts. Gwendolyn looks over at her, makes a small questioning noise. “It’s not fair that you beat cancer, and then it all gets crushed. I wanted to celebrate.”

Gwendolyn smiles, squeezes at her hand. “How would we have celebrated?” 

Mildred huffs. “I was going to make you a nice dinner, that pasta you like, melt some Oaxaca over it. I’d have steamed some spinach and baked some chicken, and then gone over to the little restaurant and ordered us some chocolate cake.” 

“So I’d have gained five pounds,” Gwendolyn chuckles. 

“No,” Mildred says, and her smile is back. And it’s dangerous. “No, we’d have worked all that off.” 

Gwendolyn is aware of the “hrrk” noise that comes out of her. She’s aware of the naughty little giggle that comes out of Mildred.

But mostly, her brain is calculating how long it would take them to walk home, whether she can keep Mildred off her the whole way, whether this beach really is abandoned enough. Other than the birds, no one has interrupted them yet, and Gwendolyn is fairly sure this is the beach she swims at— 

She spots the little alcove where she usually leaves Mildred and her towel and her book. Not that the book gets read very much, but Mildred brings one. 

She tugs Mildred along behind her, shushing at her increasing giggles. Halfway to safety, she genuinely worries Mildred is giggling too loudly. She tugs her close, kisses her fiercely, nips at her lip. “Quiet,” she growls.

“No,” Mildred laughs, tilting her head back and away. 

It shoots through Gwendolyn, makes her mouth dry, sets her body on fire. And Mildred’s neck is right there, all exposed to her, the rest of her body warm and pressed up against Gwendolyn.

Gwendolyn can’t help it. She leans forward and scrapes her teeth along Mildred’s skin. Mildred moans, and Gwendolyn has never been so grateful for the cover of darkness, for the sounds of some party leagues away. She bends and scoops Mildred up against her, legs around her hips, and keeps her lips on Mildred’s neck as Mildred clings to her. She peers over Mildred’s shoulder to make sure she doesn’t trip, ruin this for both of them. 

“Gwen,” Mildred breathes, and her fingers are digging into Gwendolyn’s shoulder and neck. “Gwen, please, I can’t—“ 

Gwendolyn pushes her up against the rock wall, finally, and Mildred pushes her hips up against Gwendolyn’s stomach. Gwendolyn looks around them— still guarded by the curve of this wall, and it’s well and truly dark here, the lights of the restaurant gone from view. It’s just them and the moon. 

Mildred’s head falls back against the rock and Gwendolyn hears it. “Don’t do that, baby,” Gwen murmurs, kissing her lightly. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Don’t care,” Mildred pants. “I just want you.” 

Gwendolyn hums as she sets Mildred down, lifting her away from the wall slightly so she doesn’t scrape up her back. The last thing they need is a bloody-backed Mildred. 

Mildred rolls her body close, and Gwendolyn runs her hands down Mildred’s sides, squeezing at her hips. She lets out a whine and Gwendolyn pulls back. 

“You have _got_ to be quiet,” she urges. Mildred shakes her head. “You have to, baby, or you’ve got to wait until we get home.” 

“Can’t wait,” Mildred says, and Gwendolyn notices she’s got her thighs pressed together. She grins, nudges at her with her knee. Mildred’s hips roll forward again, her legs falling open, and Gwendolyn presses closer. 

Mildred’s hips grind down and she shudders through a gasp, biting her lip through a moan she at least tries to swallow. “Good girl,” Gwendolyn murmurs, and Mildred’s eyes flutter closed as she twitches. 

As dark as it is, though, if she lets Mildred come on her thigh, it will be instantly noticeable. So she pulls her thigh away, keeps her hands on Mildred’s hips to hold her still. 

“Gwen,” Mildred whines, and Gwendolyn hears everything behind it. 

“Shh, baby, I promise,” Gwendolyn reassures her. “You’re doing good. I just need to do something different, okay?”

Mildred nods, and Gwendolyn can see how wide her eyes are, even in the dark. She kisses Mildred’s forehead, lifts one hand to stroke her cheek, her neck, the exposed skin between her breasts. Mildred’s breath stutters. 

“Watch for me, okay?”

“Gwendolyn?”

Her hands stay on Gwendolyn’s shoulders as Gwendolyn starts sliding down her body, trailing kisses over her chest, the fabric covering her stomach and thighs. Her fingers grip a little harder when Gwendolyn’s knees hit the ground. “Gwendolyn, what are you—“ 

“Watch for me,” she repeats, and Mildred falls silent. She smiles up at Mildred, takes Mildred’s hands off her shoulders and wraps those delicate fingers around the hem of her own skirt. She pushes Mildred’s hands up, keeps her eyes on Mildred’s face, watching for any sign she should stop. 

Mildred bites her lip, but she pulls the bottom of the skirt towards her waist, and Gwendolyn grins. “That’s my girl, look at you.” 

It has an effect on Mildred. It always does, when Gwendolyn talks this way. Mildred’s eyes snap up, and she releases her lip, looks very much like she’s trying to concentrate on watching the entrance to their little safe space. 

Gwendolyn presses kisses to the smooth skin of Mildred’s thighs, working her way up slowly. She feels the muscles there tense, but Mildred stays quiet. So Gwendolyn hooks her fingers into the waistband of Mildred’s panties, starts to tug them down. She presses a kiss to each calf as she guides Mildred to step out of them.

When she looks up, Mildred has the knuckles of one hand in her teeth, her brows furrowed and her eyes wide open. “Oh, sweetheart,” Gwendolyn says before she can help herself, and Mildred’s eyes snap to hers. “You’re doing so well, that’s it.” Mildred’s throat jumps as if she’s whining, but Gwendolyn doesn’t hear it. She grins, and Mildred’s eyes slide closed. 

“Eyes open, baby,” Gwendolyn reminds her, and Mildred takes a breath and opens her eyes again. Gwendolyn pockets her panties and her eyes widen. 

Gwendolyn takes one hand off Mildred’s skirt, kisses her knuckles. Then she ducks under the skirt, works her way back up again. She noses against Mildred’s center and Mildred twitches, her hands scrabbling at the edge of her skirt. Gwendolyn chuckles. 

She lifts one of Mildred’s legs over her shoulder, using her hands to help Mildred find her balance. “Gwendolyn,” she hears Mildred hiss, and ducks out from under her skirt. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, and it’s genuine. 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to stay standing,” Mildred says hesitantly. 

Gwendolyn chuckles. “That’s why you’ve got a thigh on my shoulder, my love,” she says. Mildred smiles a little, but she still looks concerned. “I’ll hold you up.” 

“Okay.” It’s barely louder than a breath. Gwendolyn turns her head and presses a kiss to the inside of Mildred’s knee, and it brings a smile out on Mildred’s face. 

Gwendolyn ducks back under the skirt, works her way up that leg, wrapping one arm around Mildred’s thigh and planting her other hand on Mildred’s hip. 

She’s going extremely slowly, and she knows she’s teasing, but she wants to draw this part out. She wants Mildred to feel comfortable with this before she really gets started. 

And when she does, she feels Mildred’s hand searching for her head over the fabric of the skirt, the way her breath heaves in and out as she desperately tries to stay still. Gwendolyn licks up her center again, groans at the taste of her, and Mildred’s hips thrust forward. Her fingers find the back of Gwendolyn’s head and she grips as tight as she can with a layer of cotton between them. 

She tilts Mildred’s hips forward so she has better access, relishes in the way Mildred’s skirt moves with her breath. She doesn’t know whether Mildred actually hears her say “You taste so good, God, you’re beautiful,” but she feels Mildred’s knees go weak for a moment when she pairs that with her tongue on Mildred’s clit. 

There’s too much in the way for Gwendolyn to touch her body like she usually would. She can’t look up and watch Mildred’s face, so she’s going to have to rely completely on feeling alone— not that it’s a problem to do so, she’s plenty familiar with Mildred’s body by now. 

She lets Mildred grind down against her, keeps her tongue firm until Mildred groans loudly enough that her own knuckles can’t muffle the sound. Gwendolyn digs her fingers into Mildred’s thigh as a warning, softens her fingers and rubs them in soothing circles when Mildred whimpers an apology. 

But she keeps Mildred’s hips still with her hand, letting her tongue do the work now, circling and lapping and flicking until Mildred’s thighs start to shake. She lets Mildred’s hip go, reaches under the edge of Mildred’s skirt and around the fabric. The hand that’s been at Gwendolyn’s head finds her own immediately, gripping hard.

She hums against Mildred, and Mildred’s hips buck and stutter back to their starting place. She squeezes Gwendolyn’s hand, sucks in breaths through her nose as if she’s suffocating. But Gwendolyn doesn’t stop, just continues humming, thinking about all the things she’d like to whisper in Mildred’s ear, turning those phrases into wordless vibrations. 

She feels Mildred’s other hand come to cup her head for a moment, hears a breathless “Gwen, I’m gonna— oh, fuck!” 

Gwendolyn’s hand digs into her thigh again, and the hand retreats, muffling the groan that stutters out of Mildred as she comes. 

Gwendolyn lets out a pleased little sound and Mildred yelps, hips still jerking, thighs and knees unsteady as she pushes back against the rock wall. Gwendolyn laps at her until the jerking becomes pained and oversensitive, until she’s cleaned Mildred up as best she can. 

At that point, she ducks out from under Mildred’s skirt, sets her leg back down on the ground gently, and presses her up against the rock wall. Mildred still has her hand in her teeth, and Gwendolyn pulls it free, presses her lips to the dents in Mildred’s skin. 

Mildred breathes hard, gasping in air as she clings to Gwendolyn’s arms. “God,” she pants after a moment.

“No, just me,” Gwendolyn jokes, and Mildred manages a weak little laugh before Gwendolyn is kissing her.

“Beautiful,” she says into Mildred’s mouth, “so good for me, I’m so proud of you for being so quiet.” 

Mildred shudders again. “If you don’t stop that,” she utters, “I will be forced to absolutely ruin you at home.”

The thought delights Gwendolyn. “Have I mentioned you taste just utterly delicious?” 

Mildred groans. “Please, I don’t think I can walk correctly, give me a _moment._ ” 

Gwendolyn kisses her cheek, chuckling lightly. “Cruel,” Mildred grumbles, “you are cruel.” 

But eventually, Mildred can stand on her own, and while her walking starts out a little wobbly, she’s steady on her feet by the time they’ve returned to the complex where their apartment sits. Gwendolyn finds herself grateful that their only neighbor for the week is gone, though the thought makes her feel guilty for a split second. 

And then she’s flat on the bed and Mildred’s fingers are undoing the button on her trousers and barely bothering to unzip before she’s pulled Gwendolyn’s pants off, and it’s very hard to focus on anything other than Mildred and her talented, beautiful tongue after that. 

Mildred has learned a great deal since they’d first made love, and soon enough she has Gwendolyn writhing beneath her, one hand petting at her abdomen as the other pumps in and out, curls within her and makes her shudder. 

“Oh,” Gwendolyn gasps, “you’re so good to me, I love you—“ 

Mildred groans against her, and the noise vibrates through her entire body, and she tugs hard enough at Mildred’s hair that the poor woman is able to catch a breath before Gwendolyn’s thighs are clamped shut around her as she shakes apart. 

Mildred crawls up her body when she goes limp, rests their skin together, peppers kisses over Gwendolyn’s face until they’re both giggling with it. 

“Oh, Mildred,” she laughs when she can finally catch her face with her hands. “I do love you, my sweetness.” 

Mildred blushes— she still does after all this time— and smiles. “I love you. I’d do anything for you.”

Gwendolyn wraps her arms around Mildred’s back and holds her close, hooks an ankle over Mildred’s. “Would you marry me?” 

It’s perhaps not how she’d planned to ask, or even the right time, but Mildred sighs wistfully. “We can’t, Gwendolyn, but I— I would. I’d marry you a thousand times.” 

Gwendolyn can’t help but smile, stretches up to kiss her. “Then let’s get married.” 

Mildred’s smile turns to a look of confusion. “But we couldn’t.” It’s trapped halfway between a question and a statement, like she thinks Gwendolyn knows more than she’s saying but isn’t quite sure. 

“Sure we could,” Gwendolyn says. She brings a hand up to card through Mildred’s hair, try to settle it down from where she’d mussed it. “Women do all the time.” 

“They do?” Mildred sounds baffled, and Gwendolyn has to kiss her again for it. 

“Sure. Well, they don’t call it a wedding. And they have to be held away from most of society, but really all you need is a sympathetic priest and a pair of rings.” 

She gives Mildred a moment to think, to process, before she adds, “Violet and Elina, at the bar?” Mildred makes an affirmative noise. “They got married just before we came down here. I’m sure they could tell us who married them, and hell, we could have our wedding there.” 

Mildred props herself up on her elbows and stares down at Gwendolyn. “You really want to marry me?” 

Gwendolyn softens, brings a hand between them so she can stroke Mildred’s face. “Darling. I’ve wanted to make you mine since I first saw you.”

“Well you’ve already done _that_ ,” Mildred grumbles, but there’s a grin starting to spread across her face. 

Gwendolyn chuckles. “Come on, make an honest woman of me,” she says. 

It’s not a perfect proposal, not the one Gwendolyn would have given Mildred if she’d been thinking a little more clearly. But she can’t really blame herself, and the smile that Mildred beams down at her more than makes up for it. 

“Yes,” she breathes, “oh, Gwendolyn, I love you, of course I’ll marry you—“ 

Gwendolyn cuts her off with a kiss, and they’re both smiling so hard it becomes difficult to stay connected, and Gwendolyn swears she hears music somewhere over the ocean waves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there weren't official/legally recognized weddings for queer folk before really the 1990s, but Gwendolyn isn't lying about anything she says in there. Here's a quote from a really great article (I recommend reading the second half (after the stars) [here](https://www.salon.com/2013/09/08/the_secret_history_of_gay_marriage/)):
> 
> _While it is impossible to know the actual number of committed gay and lesbian couples during the 1950s and 1960s, queer marriages existed in the immediate postwar decades and in the years before the official start to Gay Liberation. While “marriage” may have been announced upon cohabitation rather than celebration (although some sympathetic clergy would officiate over gay unions), the commitment to the relationship matched the commitment of heterosexual married couples. A primary difference was the need for discretion—or outright secrecy—in public and in dealings with family, neighbors, employers, and friends. Gay men and women might have had a community with whom they could be themselves and celebrate their relationships, but the public recognition and open communal celebration afforded a marriage between a man and a woman were absent._
> 
> So like, again, Gwen ain't lyin'. And our babies at least intend to make like Violet and Elina and wed themselves up. 
> 
> Again, I love you all, stay safe, let's have a party in the comments :) <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwendolyn learns to shoot, and the ladies learn a lil' somethin somethin about Gwendolyn's doctor. 
> 
> Also, car sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relevant tags: Fluff, Guns, Fear, Smut
> 
> Hi folks!! I'm so sorry this took me so long. Work got crazy, and then I spent two days having back-to-back 7-minute meetings for 8 hours. My brain was fried until yesterday afternoon, and then I just kept falling asleep. But I am back, and I have some time off, so I'm hoping for a chapter every 2-3 days for the next week :) On to the content! 
> 
> I know bachata isn't necessarily a Mexican dance, but I just... I really wanted the girls to do the sexy salsa. Forgive me? 
> 
> They're dancing to this song right [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wdasy_m-MlY&ab_channel=Jos%C3%A9deJes%C3%BAsTorresD%C3%ADaz). It's glorious, and one of the first ones I danced the bachata to, even though it's actually back from the late 30's. Don't knock old music until you've tried it!

Mildred wakes to cool sheets. It’s pleasant, in the Mexican heat, for the sheets to be cool. 

It also means she’s alone. 

When she processes that, she sits up, heart pounding. How long had Gwendolyn been gone? Why had she left? Was someone else here? Was Gwendolyn hurt? 

“Oh, good morning, my love.” 

Mildred blinks slowly, turns her head towards the noise. Gwendolyn has paused in the doorway out to their patio, curtain billowing slightly behind her, hair glowing rose-gold in the morning sun. Her eyes are bright and her smile wide as she loosely holds an empty mug in her hands. 

Mildred means to say good morning back to her, but a raspy little noise comes from her throat instead. Gwendolyn’s smile drops a bit, and she moves to Mildred’s side, places her mug on the bedside table and braces her arms around Mildred. “Sweetheart?” She lifts one hand to brush over Mildred’s cheek, and Mildred leans into it. 

“Woke up alone,” she responds, voice still crusty with sleep. “Didn’t know where you were.” 

Gwendolyn coos at her just a little, scoops Mildred up in her arms and kisses her forehead. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “I just went outside for coffee, that’s all, I’m right here.” 

It’s probably ridiculous, but Mildred can’t help it. She buries her face in Gwendolyn’s neck, breathes deeply, wraps her arms around Gwendolyn’s back. “Don’t scare me like that,” she hisses, thumps her forehead against Gwendolyn’s skin. 

“I didn’t want to wake you, that’s all,” Gwendolyn murmurs. There’s a smile behind her words. “You were resting.” 

“Get back in bed next time.” She’s being grumpy now. It’s fine, really, she’s fine, and Gwendolyn is fine. Everything is okay. Gwendolyn is here, and warm, and pressing her lips to Mildred’s skin and reassuring her. “Who leaves their wife alone in bed?” 

Gwendolyn laughs at that, pulls Mildred’s head back with gentle hands to pull her in for a kiss. “Oh, I know, I’m awful,” she responds, and then Mildred is pushing up against her again, sliding her arms around Mildred’s neck. She’s barely able to pull back enough to ask, “How can I ever make it up to you?” 

Mildred raises herself up on her knees, pushes Gwendolyn backwards, and shows her. 

“Well,” Mildred says afterwards, “good morning.”

Gwendolyn hums happily, traces little circles over the skin of Mildred’s right shoulder. “Apology accepted?” 

Mildred chuckles. “Make me some coffee and we’ll see.” Gwendolyn laughs again, and it’s a joyful sound, and Mildred wants it. But Gwendolyn kisses her again and pats her side gently, rolls away and picks up the white shirt she’d shucked off. 

Mildred watches her dress, pull on her panties and brassiere, smooth out the shirt and the rosy embroidery on it. She watches as Gwendolyn moves through their apartment, half-searching for her trousers. She watches as Gwendolyn dumps grounds into their little coffee pot, fills it with water, fires up the stove.

“Your trousers are over here,” Mildred murmurs, lifts them from the headboard, holding the blankets from their bed to her chest. 

Gwendolyn looks over, a smile gracing her face as she strides over and retrieves both the salmon-coloured trousers and a kiss from Mildred. “Thank you, sweetness.”

Mildred basks in the kiss, in the sweet words, eyes still closed and head turned up. Gwendolyn chuckles, brings their lips together again with a hand at the back of Mildred’s head. “You should get dressed too,” she says when she pulls back.

Mildred watches her pull the pants on before she moves herself. 

Two years ago— hell, even a year and a half ago— she would have wrapped a sheet around herself. Today, she pushes herself up and eases out of bed without a single stitch. She gets a whistle of appreciation for it, which she waves off with a laugh as she moves towards their bathroom. 

When she emerges, she’s greeted by a coffee mug pressed into her hands, warm as the kiss to her cheek. “What am I getting dressed for?” she asks. 

“Oh, I just thought,” Gwendolyn starts, but she hesitates. Her face is a little less bright, and Mildred doesn’t like that. She brings her hand to Gwendolyn’s cheek, presses her lips to the corner of Gwendolyn’s mouth. Gwendolyn sighs and wraps her arms around Mildred’s bare skin. “Well, it’s always best to be prepared, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Mildred responds, leaning into Gwendolyn. 

“I’ve no idea how to shoot a gun.”

Mildred blinks. “Really?”

Gwendolyn grunts an affirmative. “Never had a reason to, so I never learned. And as much as I—“ she swallows, and Mildred snuggles closer. “As much as I really don’t like a pistol, perhaps this is the moment I learn.”

Mildred feels a wave of guilt, maybe something close to shame, wash over her. Gwendolyn wouldn’t have to do this if she wasn’t here. If she didn’t put Gwendolyn in danger. 

“Stop that,” Gwendolyn murmurs. Mildred looks up. “Stop blaming yourself.”

“But—“

“No,” Gwendolyn interrupts. “The circumstances can’t be helped, but the next time I’m up against a gun, I’d like to have a fair shot.” 

Mildred ducks down into her arms. Gwendolyn’s mind is set, she knows, so it won’t do to try and convince her otherwise. She still can’t help the feeling that Gwendolyn would be safer without her— but she tries to push that away, set it aside for now. 

“We can go dancing after,” Gwendolyn murmurs against her ear, and Mildred shivers. It’s a good shiver, one that makes her feel electric. “Come on, put on something pretty, teach me to shoot, and let me sweep you off your feet.” 

Mildred giggles. 

Gwendolyn is a good shot, not that this surprises Mildred. Her hands shake, the first couple of shots, but she’s quickly able to adapt. “Don’t try to fight when the gun springs back,” Mildred tells her, “you’ll end up hurting yourself that way.” 

The next shot hits the can they’ve been practicing with clear off the stump. Mildred’s eyes go wide. “That was good.”

Gwendolyn smiles. “Do I get a reward?” 

“Later,” Mildred laughs. “Go on, set it back up.”

There’s something very sensual about watching Gwendolyn do this. The way her body moves while she crosses the little wooded area, the way her trousers pull just a little tight when she kneels to retrieve the can. When she comes back to Mildred, it’s the way her fingers are smooth against the cold metal, her biceps waiting to be flexed as she readies herself. It’s the way her hips swivel above her feet. It’s the line of her entire body, toe to neck, the way it all seems like Mildred could fit herself perfectly in there. 

She bites her lip as Gwendolyn steadies herself. “Ready?” Gwendolyn asks. 

Mildred reaches out, lip still between her teeth, places a hand on Gwendolyn’s arm. “Uncock the trigger.” 

Gwendolyn glances at her, then fixes her eyes back on the target. “What?”

“Uncock the trigger. I think we can be done for now.” She squeezes Gwendolyn’s arm. Gwendolyn blinks again, but she follows directions, then flips out the barrel. 

She hesitates with the gun for a moment, and Mildred slides her hand down Gwendolyn’s arm, meets up with her hand. She tilts the gun in Gwendolyn’s hand until the bullets spill out into her palm. 

“Mildred,” Gwendolyn murmurs. Mildred looks up and smiles. 

“It’s alright,” Mildred responds. 

She knows it’s not the best feeling. The surge of power one feels when a bullet hits it’s target. The way one’s muscles clench and release, the tension and relief, the float of intense emotions, the glory of it all. It’s overwhelming. And Mildred can see that on Gwendolyn’s face. 

She checks around them, moving her head on a swivel, before popping up on her toes and kissing Gwendolyn.

Gwendolyn’s arm goes around her automatically, holding her close, breathing her in. Mildred leans back, presses a second kiss to the corner of Gwendolyn’s mouth. 

“It’s alright,” she repeats. “Now let’s go get some dinner. I hear there’s a nice bar around these parts for women like us.”

Gwendolyn’s smile is hesitant, almost quiet, but it’s there. She smiles. She lets Mildred pocket both the gun and the bullets, separate them out into little leather pouches that both go into the glovebox of Gwendolyn’s car. 

Gwendolyn drives with one hand, these days, the roads much easier to follow than those of the cliffs of California. Her free hand rests on Mildred’s thigh, sometimes squeezing lightly. Mildred lifts that hand to her lips before returning it to her thigh and covering it with her own. 

Mildred is grateful for the heat here; on nights like these, at home, she’d be shivering with the cold, and Gwendolyn would offer her a jacket. But here, Mildred can wear her high-waisted skirt and cropped top, not worry about the cold at her bare stomach or shoulders. 

Gwendolyn’s thumb brushes across her skirt and she shivers anyways. “Cold?” Gwendolyn asks, concern in her voice. 

Mildred scoots closer on the car bench, rests her cheek on Gwendolyn’s shoulder. “Not at all.” 

They drive further into the forest, until the warm light of the bar is close enough to light Gwendolyn’s face in the setting sun. When Gwendolyn parks, Mildred notices the windows of the bar are open— not unusual, merely a sign that the back patio is open as well. Gentle wisps of smoke pour out of the windows as women sit by them and exhale into the night. 

Mildred climbs out before Gwendolyn has a chance to open the door for her, unable to keep her excitement at bay. The hunger probably doesn’t help either, but she rounds in front of the car and tucks her hands into Gwendolyn’s arm. 

Gwendolyn doesn’t respond verbally, presses a kiss to Mildred’s temple instead. “Let’s sit out back,” Mildred murmurs to her. 

“Okay,” Gwendolyn says back. And then she stops, turns Mildred’s face towards her, kisses her just because she can. 

“And then we can find Violet and Elina,” Mildred says against her lips. “And talk to them about a priest and some rings.” 

Gwendolyn hums against her, kisses her again. She’s got a smile on her lips, now, and Mildred thinks she feels some of the guilt and tension of the afternoon falling away as Gwendolyn moves her hand to the small of Mildred’s back. 

The sandwiches are good ones, considering this is really a bar. Mildred watches Gwendolyn eat, watches the way women tangle their legs together as they sit at the bar itself, watches the dancing couples as they sway to a song she can’t name. Gwendolyn reaches out her hand and Mildred takes it. 

“Are you alright?” Gwendolyn asks, sweeping her thumb across Mildred’s knuckles. 

Mildred squeezes her hand gently. “Of course. I just…” she’s not sure how to say this without ruining any happiness of the moment. “I wish it could be like this, always. That I could hold your hand at breakfast, or kiss you when you open the door for me, dance with you.”

Gwendolyn smiles gently. “I know. Maybe someday.” 

Mildred smiles back, tugs Gwendolyn’s hand in hers to her lips. “I do love you.”

“I know,” Gwendolyn returns, her smile turning mischievous, and Mildred is about to squawk in protest. But then she continues, “I love you too.” 

They grin at each other for a few moments. “We can dance here,” Gwendolyn says eventually, an almost shy look on her face. 

Mildred looks at her and feels that wave of warmth course over her again. She can taste strawberries and sangria and the salt of Gwendolyn’s lips when she’s just emerged from the sea. She can smell lavender and old smoke and coffee, freshly ground. 

“I don’t know the song,” Mildred says, but the smile on her face and the twinkle in her eye tell Gwendolyn to stand. 

Gwendolyn offers a hand. “Neither do I. Come on,” she teases, “it’ll be an adventure.” 

Mildred laughs and takes her hand, lets herself be led to the dance floor. Gwendolyn wraps one arm around her back, takes Mildred’s free hand in her own. Mildred cups her other hand around Gwendolyn’s upper arm. 

The music is gentle, though it’s got a driving beat to it. Trumpets drift through the speakers of the record player, shuffling drum beats seem to scoot through the feet of everyone around them. Mildred has no idea how one dances to this sort of thing— she and Gwendolyn usually take the floor to slower songs, ones they can simply sway to, but Gwendolyn seems to feel playful tonight. 

Her hips certainly do, at least. 

Which is distracting, especially when her hand falls to the small of Mildred’s back, pushing alternately with her fingers and the heel of her hand. She slips a leg between Mildred’s. 

“Gwendolyn,” Mildred says lowly, half confused, half aroused. 

“Wrap your arms around my neck,” Gwendolyn murmurs back. “Look around.”

Mildred does. The other couples out here mirror the two of them, some a little closer than she and Gwendolyn are now. She feels Gwendolyn’s hands come to rest on her hips, tug them close to her own, and her mouth lands in the crook of Mildred’s neck. Mildred closes her eyes and rests her head against the back of Gwendolyn’s. 

_“Perdon,”_ the voice from the record calls, _“si es que faltado.”_

“Relax,” Gwendolyn murmurs. “Let me show you.”

Mildred shivers. Gwendolyn is so close, closer than they’ve perhaps ever been with clothes still covering their bodies. She can’t help but wonder if this is hell on Gwendolyn’s knees, the way they seem to be crouching as they move ever so slightly around. Gwendolyn’s thigh keeps rubbing against her, and if she’s trying to end the night early or make a madwoman out of Mildred, she’s certainly succeeding. 

She lets her hips go, rolls them forward ever so slightly on a puff of air. Gwendolyn chuckles slightly against her skin, then scrapes her teeth against Mildred’s neck. Mildred shivers and pulls their chests closer together. 

_“Tu sabes que te quiero, con todo el corazón, con todo el corazón—“_

“Do you know what he’s saying?”

Mildred shakes her head. Her eyes open just a bit, and the world has shifted almost imperceptibly. The other couples move just as slowly as they do, little cogs on a moving floor, wrapped up in each other until it’s hard to tell where one woman begins and the other ends. 

Gwendolyn pulls Mildred’s forehead to hers. “What does it feel like?”

Mildred almost groans at the look in Gwendolyn’s eyes. Maybe she is trying to end the night early. Mildred wouldn’t mind at this point. 

“I want you,” she hisses. 

“Maybe you are learning some Spanish,” Gwendolyn smiles, and captures her lips in her own. 

_“Que es todo lo que ansía mi pobre corazón.”_

Mildred is mostly convinced, at this point, that the only thing keeping her upright is Gwendolyn’s leg between her own, Gwendolyn’s hands at her hips. Maybe she’s got more of a chance with her arms around Gwendolyn’s neck, but her sighs are breathy and if this weren’t in public, she’d be a little less embarrassed about that. 

As it is, Gwendolyn pulls back as the trumpets fade, slowly slides her thigh away. 

“Let’s get you a drink,” Gwendolyn says, and she’s clearly amused at how much the dancing has affected Mildred. 

Mildred follows, swallowing around nothing, pressing the fingers of the hand not in Gwendolyn’s to her cheek in hopes of soothing the heat there. It does nothing, really. 

Gwendolyn orders them both a Paloma, pushes Mildred to a stool and stands between her legs. “Alright?” she asks. 

“You’re trying to work me up,” Mildred accuses. 

Gwendolyn feigns shock. “Me? Never.” Their drinks arrive and she thanks the bartender, hands one to Mildred, clinks their glasses together lightly before taking a sip. She sighs in relief and Mildred reaches out to rest her arm over Gwendolyn’s shoulder. “I know I’d said we’d look for them, but I’ve not been very attentive.” 

“Who?”

Gwendolyn smiles at her. “Violet and Elina.” 

“Oh.” Mildred sips at her drink, feels the tequila burn her throat as she swallows. “Yes, we—“ 

Something catches her eye.

Pale skin, a choppy bob of black hair, a slightly unsteady walk. She freezes, air frozen in her lungs as she tracks the woman. 

“Mildred? Darling, what’s wrong, what just happened?” 

The woman turns to look at her. Mildred feels herself sag in relief— her face is too round, eyes too delicate, to be Louise. 

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head. She turns back to Gwendolyn, leans forward to touch their foreheads together. “I thought I saw someone, that’s all.” 

Gwendolyn slides her hand from Mildred’s thigh up to her back, rubs soothing circles there. “Maybe we should pack that bag,” she says quietly. “We could drive anywhere. Go down the coast of Mexico, this time.” 

Mildred presses a kiss to her lips before pulling back and taking a sip. She doesn’t have time to respond before there’s a deep voice calling “Mi niña, papi!” 

She and Gwendolyn turn to look at the same time, and Violet is before them in all her tanned glory, arms spread wide and hazel eyes nearly closed with the force of her smile. “Violet,” Gwendolyn says fondly, “where’s Elina?” 

Elina appears, blonde hair swept up in a twist, pink lips upturned even as she rolls her green eyes. “Following behind my wife, annoyed she keeps calling another woman _papi_.” She toasts Gwendolyn anyways, takes a healthy drink of her beer before leaning over to kiss Mildred’s cheek. “How are you, muru?”

“Oh, so I can’t call this hunk papi, but you can call pretty little miss muru?” Violet is leaning into Gwendolyn’s side hug, pretends to pout at Mildred. 

Elina rolls her eyes again. “Forgive me checking up on our friends.” 

Mildred feels the blush come back to her face. It’s not often she’s around other women like this, though it’s more common now than ever in the past. Gwendolyn is so comfortable with them, exchanging pleasantries and kisses and recommendations on cocktails, but Mildred still feels a bit awkward. 

She’s only got eyes for Gwendolyn, of course, but two attractive women with lovely accents? It’s hard not to wonder, if circumstances had been different, if Violet and Elina hadn’t been married. 

“Actually, we wanted to ask you,” Mildred starts, clearing her throat. 

Elina is rather private, quiet and steadfast with an arm wrapped around Violet. Violet is all energy, all light— and all stories, if you give her the right prompting. She’s energy in a human being, where Elina is at times statuesque. Violet showers her with pet names and praise and it hardly seems to effect her. 

If one looks closely, though— something Mildred likes to do— one might see the quirk of Elina’s lips every time a “mi Reina” is uttered, or the slight flaring of Elina’s nostrils when she laughs without sound. 

“He bartends here, some nights,” Violet is saying, “usually Mondays. Says it makes him feel closer to Jesus.” The hard “J” sounds odd in Violet’s voice, but she says it with a laugh. “I mean, if it takes marrying sapphics to feel closer to the Good Lord, I suppose I can’t fault him.” 

Gwendolyn laughs. “Thank you, Violet.” She turns to Mildred with a smile. 

“Are you going to ask us to be your witnesses?” Elina asks, almost sounding impatient. She’s teasing, but then she sees that Mildred is biting her lip. “Oh, you are.” 

“Yes,” Mildred says quietly, “if you’re open to that.” 

Violet squeals, practically shoves Gwendolyn out of the way to hug Mildred. Mildred just barely catches her, grateful for Elina’s hand at her back so they don’t both topple off of the stool. Violet pulls her back up, peppers her cheeks with affectionate kisses, and Mildred can barely breathe for all the emotion around her. “Enough, let your girlfriend go,” Elina chuckles. Violet squeals again, jumps onto Gwendolyn, knocking her out of Elina’s side hug. 

Elina fixes Mildred with an exasperated, but fond, look. “I’m going to take this one onto the floor before she smothers one of you.” 

Mildred lets out a little giggle despite herself. “Thank you.”

Violet goes willingly, and Gwendolyn blinks up at Mildred, still slightly stunned. “Well,” she says when she’s got her bearings back, “I suppose that settles it.” 

Mildred smiles, leans down to kiss Gwendolyn. “I love you,” she says against her, tastes the salt and lime on her lips. 

“Mmmm.” Gwendolyn’s hand comes up to cup the back of Mildred’s head. “I love you.” 

Mildred pulls back to take another sip of her drink, wonders if the Paloma will ever lose the new association with Gwendolyn’s kiss. She hopes it doesn’t. 

She goes to look at Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn’s eyes are fixed on something over her shoulder, and she’s gone a little pale. Mildred reaches for her hand as she turns. 

“Doctor De la Peña?”

The woman snaps her head up and to the side, suddenly pale, dark curls bouncing. But then there’s a glimmer of recognition, and she lowers her head with a “Jesu” and a swig of what looks to be like straight vodka. “Miss Ratched, Missus Briggs.” 

Mildred has no idea what to say. What does one say, when one’s doctor turns out to be a lesbian? 

“I didn’t know we…ran in the same circles,” Gwendolyn says, some color returning to her face. 

The doctor chuckles lowly. “I don’t, usually. Well, I do, just not…” she curses under her breath. Then she looks up at Gwendolyn, smiles and raises her glass. “I came to celebrate.” 

“Alone?” Mildred asks, before she can stop herself. 

De la Peña blinks twice. Then her lips quirk up at the side. “Well, hopefully not by the end of the night.”

Gwendolyn laughs as Mildred reddens. “Oh.” 

Gwendolyn comes around Mildred’s side, extends a hand. “We’ve never been casually introduced. Gwendolyn Briggs, and this is my—“ she turns to look over her shoulder at Mildred, smile softening. “My fiancé, Mildred Ratched.” 

Mildred blushes, bites her lip slightly. 

De la Peña takes Gwendolyn’s hand and shakes jovially. “Fernanda De la Peña,” she says. “Congratulations.” 

“Let me buy you a drink,” Gwendolyn says. “As a thank you.” 

Fernanda shakes her head. “I was only doing my job.” 

“Then let me buy you a drink,” Mildred says, snaking her arm around Gwendolyn’s shoulders. “To thank you for doing it.” 

Fernanda considers them both, smile soft. Eventually it widens, and she says, “Alright, fine, but we have much to celebrate. Champagne. A whole bottle, and the two of you will share it with me.” 

Mildred grins. “Capital idea,” Gwendolyn says, waves down the bartender. 

Violet and Elina emerge from the dance floor, Violet practically dragging her wife behind her. “And who is this little mariposa?” 

Elina rolls her eyes again. “Apologies, my wife is—“ 

“She’s my doctor,” Gwendolyn says. “Two more glasses, por favor?” 

The bartender smiles and nods. Violet and Elina seem shocked. “Champagne for a doctor? A lesbian doctor?” Elina asks, eyes flitting back and forth. 

“A lesbian doctor who cured Gwendolyn,” Mildred says. 

Violet gasps, covering her mouth. Elina’s eyes well up, and a moment later she has Gwendolyn’s face in her hands, babbling something no one else seems to understand before pulling Gwendolyn in for a crushing hug. Violet turns to Fernanda, tears in her eyes, one hand outstretched. Fernanda smiles and takes her hand, squeezes lightly. 

“Let’s take this out to the deck,” Mildred says, amused at the turn of events. The bartender hands her the champagne bottle in a bucket of ice. “Gracias.” His head tilts in acknowledgement. 

They find a table on the deck, where Mildred pours champagne and toasts to the doctor as Violet and Elina snuggle closer and Gwendolyn’s hands find her hips. Fernanda closes her eyes and tips her head forward, still uncomfortable in the praise, but she smiles. They drink and tell stories and laugh. Violet manages to get Fernanda to reveal that she’d been through a breakup six months prior, but finally felt ready to get back out on the floor. This has Violet scanning the deck for a lady “pretty enough for an angel,” as she declares. 

“I’m really no—“ 

“You are to us,” Elina cuts her off. “Take the compliment.” 

Mildred shoots her a sympathetic glance, and Gwendolyn just shrugs. 

Eventually, Gwendolyn pats Mildred’s hip, encouraging her to stand up off her lap with a quiet “I’ve got to go powder my nose, darling.” Mildred obliges, sits back down in the warmth of the chair they’d been lounging in. 

Violet perks up at the sight of a redhead, says “You like redheads, don’t you?” to Fernanda, and tugs Elina off with her before Fernanda can even respond. 

“I suppose so,” Fernanda says to empty air, vaguely confused. Mildred laughs. 

The two sit in companionable silence for a moment before Mildred speaks again. “I would like to thank you.” 

“Please,” Fernanda starts, waving her off. 

“No, no,” Mildred interrupts. “I mean, obviously, I am very happy you cured Gwendolyn.”

“Missus— Gwendolyn,” she corrects herself with a smile, “did that herself. I merely gave her body the drugs and defense she needed.” 

“Sure,” Mildred allows. “I wanted to thank you for how you treated her.” Fernanda looks at her, confused. “Gwendolyn is… she’s brilliant, really, so intelligent and wonderful and all sorts of things people take for granted. She’s steady and warm and dependable, and so goddamn stubborn it worries me sometimes.” She clears her throat, takes a sip of champagne. “Most people take her for granted, or speak down to her, and I think in some ways she learned to expect that.”

Fernanda is listening to her now, serious, leaning forward slightly in her own chair. 

“She’s so kind. She’s the kindest person I’ve ever known, with one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever seen, and to have someone give her the respect and chance that she deserves, it’s—“ she chokes off slightly, stares at the bubbles in her glass before she looks back up at Fernanda. “You always treated her that way. Like she was precious, like she deserved to be cared for. And I can’t thank you enough for that.” 

Fernanda smiles, and it reaches her eyes for maybe the first time this night, and she reaches for Mildred’s hand. “Of course,” she says, squeezing. “Of course.” 

Gwendolyn comes back to a teary-eyed Mildred, immediate concern filling her gaze, but Mildred tugs her down for a kiss and smiles against her. 

Violet comes back with the redhead she’d mentioned, introduces her as “Serena” to Fernanda, winking at Mildred. “Fernanda is a doctor,” she murmurs into Serena’s ear. 

“A doctor?” Serena asks, clearly fascinated and delighted. “What kind of medicine?” 

“Oncology,” Fernanda says, eyes wide. “Ehm— cancer.” 

“Oh, wow. That has to be very sad sometimes.”

“Not always,” Mildred interrupts. “She’s just cured this one.” She pats Gwendolyn’s arm around her waist, leans back in her lap again with a smile. 

Fernanda looks to Mildred, about to refute her, but Mildred glares at her. 

“Wow, that’s incredible!” Serena grins at Fernanda, who utters a shy little “thank you.” A new song strikes up inside, and Serena perks up. “I love this song,” she gushes, clasps her hands in front of her, eyes fixed on Fernanda. 

It takes Fernanda a moment, Elina almost glaring at her before the dark haired woman utters, “Oh. Ehm, would you like to dance?” 

“I’d be delighted,” Serena grins, takes the arm Fernanda offers when she stands. “Nice to meet you all!” 

“I don’t think she asked any of our names,” Gwendolyn chuckles as the two walk inside. Elina sits down with a huff and Violet crawls into her lap. 

The two couples watch the moon rise, drain the bottle of champagne. Fernanda and Serena don’t come back.

Eventually, Violet and Elina go inside, and it’s just Mildred and Gwendolyn. Mildred’s ended up sideways across Gwendolyn’s lap, brushing her lips lazily over Gwendolyn’s, humming at the taste of her. Smooth and sharp, salt tempered by the fruit of the champagne. 

“Are you okay to drive?” Mildred asks. 

“Sure,” Gwendolyn says against her lips, eyes still closed. “Are you sober enough to behave?” 

“I can’t promise that.” 

“I’ll take you home anyways.” 

It’s fond, and she keeps an arm around Mildred even though Mildred isn’t stumbling. It isn’t even until they’re in the car that Mildred feels a hint of the world spinning, misses Gwendolyn’s arms around her, Gwendolyn’s fingers against her skin. Gwendolyn glances over at her once they’re on the road. 

“You alright?” she asks. 

“Just peachy,” Mildred mumbles, shoots a silly grin Gwendolyn’s way. She’s met with an amused chuckle. Courage blooms in her chest, mixes with the anxiety she’s been feeling all week, fumbles into the adoration always in her mind. “I’d be better if you pulled over and made love to me.” 

Gwendolyn makes a choking sound. “Baby, I am driving.”

“That’s why I said pull over.” 

Gwendolyn groans out a breath, glances at her, lets her right hand fall to Mildred’s thigh. “You can’t wait until we get home? Until I can lay you down properly and show you how beautiful you are?” 

Mildred takes her hand, slides it up further and towards her center. “I don’t think I can wait.”

Gwendolyn exhales noisily. She also starts looking around, spots a darker section up ahead indicating an exit. She pulls off and further into the darkness, until they’re surrounded by nothing but Mexican ferns, parks the car in the green darkness. 

Mildred tugs her towards the center of the bench, swings herself over into Gwendolyn’s lap. She fiddles with the top of Gwendolyn’s pants, growls when she can’t find a clasp or zipper. “How do you—?”

“You seemed to have no problem with that this morning,” Gwendolyn reminds her fondly, reaches up to pull her in for a kiss before sliding her hands down to cup Mildred’s ass. “It’s in the back.” 

Mildred groans, pushing her hips closer to Gwendolyn. She tries to reach around, but Gwendolyn stops her. “We can deal with me later,” she says. Her fingers brush against the exposed skin at Mildred’s midriff. “Let me take care of you, baby.” 

Mildred tips her head back as Gwendolyn’s mouth lands at her collarbone. “Gwendolyn,” she breathes. 

“Yes, sweetness?” The words are murmured against the bare skin of her chest, lips trailing down, and it really isn’t fair that Gwendolyn can do this to her so quickly. That she can need Gwendolyn so badly. That the heat of the night is nothing compared to the heat between her legs, what she wouldn’t give for Gwendolyn to touch her, please God she needs her— 

“Alright,” Gwen coos, her hands sliding up Mildred’s thighs and under her skirt. “Alright.” 

So she’d said that out loud. She’d be more embarrassed if it weren’t getting her what she wanted. As it is, she leans down, buries her fingers in Gwendolyn’s hair, kisses her deeply. Gwendolyn licks into her mouth as the fingers of one hand push aside her panties, swipe through the wetness waiting for her. They both groan at the same time, though Mildred’s voice takes on a rather desperate quality as Gwendolyn’s fingers find her clit. 

“Gwen,” she pants, “please, I can’t—“ 

“Shhhh.” She removes one hand from under Mildred’s skirt, wraps it around her wrist. “I’ve got you.”

Mildred feels like she’s going to explode. She braces herself above Gwendolyn, palms and fingers wrapped around the top of the bench-back, hips bucking as Gwendolyn circles her clit. She pants and Gwendolyn mouths at her neck. Gwendolyn’s free hand comes to rest at her hip, and she pulls Mildred down onto her fingers, and Mildred lets out a loud groan. 

“Baby,” Gwendolyn chuckles, “you’re going to scare the animals.” 

“Fuck,” Mildred answers. “Please, Gwe— ah—“ 

Gwendolyn’s hand presses against her clit as her fingers massage at her core slowly, and it’s all so heady— it’s better than being drunk, better than the time Violet handed her what she thought was a cigarette and ended up being something completely different. She whines and whimpers as Gwendolyn whispers into her ear, fingers moving slowly even as Mildred rocks and rolls against them. God, she’s like some sex-crazed teenager, grinding against her fiancé in the front seat of a car. 

She’s glad she had enough patience to pull her away from the driver’s seat. At least she isn’t trying to stay away from the steering wheel. 

“I want to see you,” Gwendolyn murmurs against her, hand at her chest now. “I want to see you when you come.” 

Mildred leans back through a shudder, gasps and arches into Gwendolyn’s hands as the angle of her fingers changes. “Shit,” she gasps. 

Gwendolyn hums in sympathy, shifts under Mildred, and it sends shocks up Mildred’s spine, makes her throw her head back as she shudders. 

But her hand comes up to Mildred’s hair, gently massages at the back of her neck, pulls her head forward until they’re looking into each other’s eyes. 

Somehow, Mildred feels her more, looking at her like this. She can feel every inch of her skin where Gwendolyn touches her, can feel every beat of her own heart echoed against Gwendolyn’s fingers. She can feel Gwendolyn’s eyes boring into hers, holding her tight, and oh, God— 

She comes with a breathy, barely-there whine, a smile slowly spreading across Gwendolyn’s face as she does, hips jerking wildly enough that she’s afraid she’ll hurt Gwendolyn’s wrist. But Gwendolyn doesn’t pull away, she presses closer, leaning up until their noses almost touch, eyes flicking down to Mildred’s lips as she murmurs, “I love you, that’s a good girl, so beautiful, I love you.” 

Mildred rides that wave, hips rolling, crushes her lips to Gwendolyn’s. She’s floating, falling, floating again, and all she wants is Gwendolyn holding her, Gwendolyn kissing her, Gwendolyn telling her she’s good and pretty and loved. 

Eventually it starts to hurt, and she jerks her hips away with a hiss. Gwendolyn pulls back and she whines, and then Gwendolyn’s fingers that have been buried in Mildred are in her own mouth. 

Mildred sucks in a breath as she moans. “Better than champagne,” she murmurs. Mildred closes her eyes and shudders. 

Gwendolyn kisses her sweetly. “Let me drive us home.”

She pins Gwendolyn to the wall of the shower in their apartment, buries her tongue between Gwendolyn’s legs and tries to remember what Gwendolyn did to her at the beach. She does well enough, if Gwendolyn’s gasps and tugs at her hair are to be believed. Gwendolyn comes with enough force that Mildred has to hold her up by the hips for the rest of their shower. 

“Goddamn, baby,” Gwendolyn says in the haze of her afterglow, “didn’t know you could do that.” 

“Neither did I,” Mildred giggles. She combs conditioner through Gwendolyn’s hair and relishes in the slightly dopey smile she’s earned. 

They fall into bed together, champagne and tequila not quite worn off. Mildred holds Gwendolyn to her chest, pressing light kisses to her still-damp hair until the strawberry blonde drifts off. 

And then she’s left alone with her thoughts. 

What if it had been Louise, back at the bar? What if Violet and Elina had walked up with Charlotte? What if Edmund had come across them in the car, or in the woods when she was teaching Gwendolyn to shoot? What if, as he could at any moment, Edmund burst through their door? 

What would Mildred do? What could Mildred do? 

She kisses the top of Gwendolyn’s head again, smiles at the sleep-ridden happy grunt Gwendolyn lets out. 

God, she loves this woman. 

And God, the danger she’s put this woman in.

She holds Gwendolyn tight, tries to swallow down her tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed!! My apologies again for the delay, but I hope the car sex made up for it :) 
> 
> Also, if you're wondering, yes, Violet did indeed call Gwendolyn "daddy". Elina called Mildred "darling" in retaliation (as far as I can tell), and then the actual wives chilled out. Aren't they lovely? 
> 
> Also, Fernanda De la Peña is indeed a giant lesbian. Her first name means "brave" or "adventurous" and I think that's fitting. 
> 
> See you again soon, bbs! Be safe :) <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mildred leaves a note, whenever she leaves the apartment before Gwendolyn wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relevant tags: Angst, guns (mentioned)
> 
> Hi folks.
> 
> I apologize in advance, okay? Please remember Sugar High is set after the events of this fic, and this is an AU that is an AU because I am making it a happy ending. Okay? 
> 
> The next couple (2? maybe more) chapters are going to be a little less fluffy than the ones before this one. Eesh, I'm sorry! <3
> 
> Go make your comfort food/drink and wrap yourself in a blanket, and feel free to yell at me below.

Gwendolyn wakes alone. 

This, in and of itself, is not cause for panic. It’s not particularly rare for Mildred to wake before Gwendolyn, brew some coffee, move herself to the fireplace or out to their patio so that her restlessness doesn’t wake Gwendolyn. 

But there isn’t the smell of coffee, not freshly brewed. Perhaps gone stale in the heat and humidity. Had Gwendolyn really slept that well? 

She rolls over to check Mildred’s side of the bed— it’s made, and it’s cold, meaning Mildred has been out of bed for quite some time. Gwendolyn sits up with a confused sound, holds the sheets to her chest. “Darling?” 

There’s no response. She swings her legs off the bed, moves to the bathroom to grab her robe. The mirror is perfectly clear; no shower has been had recently, or at least not one warm enough to warrant drops of water forming on the mirror. She wraps the robe around herself and moves back to the body of the apartment. 

Mildred isn’t by the fireplace. She isn’t in the kitchen, or even fiddling with something in the alcove with the stained glass. 

Gwendolyn isn’t panicking. She’s just a bit concerned. 

Mildred isn’t outside, either. She’s not sitting and sunning herself on the patio, doesn’t grin up at Gwendolyn when she hears her feet on wood. She isn’t fussing at the shrubbery as if doing so will clean up the area. She hasn’t curled up out here after an early-morning nightmare she refuses to wake Gwendolyn up for no matter how many times Gwendolyn insists that she does. 

Gwendolyn’s not panicking, though. That’s what she tells herself. 

Besides, Mildred could be out getting groceries. They’ve been running low. And she always leaves a note when she goes somewhere. 

So Gwendolyn heads back inside, moves towards the fireplace again. No note on the table, not like there usually is. She stands and stares at it for a moment, blinks as if doing so enough times will make a piece of paper magically appear. 

She looks up at the noise of a car turning off, waits expectantly. But unless Mildred has too much to handle in a reasonable trip, it’s not Mildred. Their door doesn’t open. 

Gwendolyn moves towards the door, and that’s when she spots it; there’s an envelope laying on her own nightstand, with Mildred’s perfectly looping handwriting across it. _Gwendolyn_. 

She turns the envelope over, slips the folded stationery out of the envelope, carefully turns it in her fingers until the words are clear before her. 

She’s not panicking, she tells herself. Her heart always beats this quickly when it comes to Mildred. 

_My Dearest Love,_

_I couldn’t bear to wake you. Please don’t be angry, not for that._

_My hope is that I will return to you, and quickly, but if it comes to it and I never see your shining face…_

_I have no doubt that what I am about to do could result in my death. My brother is not a child, as much as I wish I could have frozen him in time. He views me as an enemy, and he has always been a vengeful sort, and I am certain he will come for me. So I must go to him, and hope I return to you, to spare you from the anger and fire of his path._

_Gwendolyn, I love you. I say that often, or I try to, though I apologize if I have not made that clear. I should say it, possibly show it, more often, and if I return I will do my best to make that happen. My love for you outgrows the space I made for you in my heart, takes over my body and binds me to you beyond anything I have ever known. And it is for this reason that I must leave you. I cannot in good conscience put the one I love in so much danger._

_I will carry with me the memories of our time together, and be grateful for them. More than you could ever know. I am grateful for the love you have shown me, for the warmth of your hands on my skin, for the smiles I have earned from you. And it is so hard for me to leave that behind. It is a physical pain in my chest, an ache I will carry with me until I am gone, and even then, that pain will walk this earth. I cannot live without you, Gwendolyn, so I must go alone, in hopes that I might trade my life for yours. I have very few bargaining chips, but I hope that God or whoever looks down upon us finds this trade permissible._

_I am so sorry, for the hurt I have caused you. For the time I wasted. For the words I have said that caused you pain, whether I knew then or I still do not know. I am so sorry I could not be better, that I came to you with history that still stalks at the edge of my life, threatens the things I love._

_I hold on to the hope, to the dream, of our life together. I hope that God— if he answers our prayers— grants me safe return to you. If I do not, Gwendolyn, if I must give my life in service of you, do not forget how much I love you. Those will be the last words on my lips, the last breath I heave will be your name._

_I hold on to the hope that you can forgive me for this, for leaving, for every pain I have caused you and will bring to you. I have been reckless, and foolish, and thoughtless, and if I could erase that pain, if I could take away the hurts that have caused your tears…_

_But, Gwendolyn, if the worst comes to pass, and I am gone from this earth— I will come back. If the dead can walk among us, and I so often worry they do, I will be among them. I will always be near you, in every sun-filled day and dark-black night. I will watch over you, unseen, for I have loved you so well. Every breeze will be the brush of my fingers against your skin, every drop of water a kiss. Do not mourn me, but think of me as merely absent from your side and waiting for you, and someday I will hold you again._

_Mildred Ratched_

Gwendolyn’s legs give out from under her. 

This cannot be happening. She’s still dreaming. 

_I have no doubt that what I am about to do could result in my death._

_“I’ll take care of it.”_

_“He’ll kill you, Gwendolyn.”_

_“I’m trying to protect you, I don’t want him to hurt you, please, let me go.”_

_"I can’t live without you.”_

_“I thought I saw someone, that’s all.”_

_If I do not, Gwendolyn, if I must give my life in service of you, do not forget how much I love you.  
_

All the words of the past few days come flooding back to Gwendolyn, and it’s all too much. She can’t breathe. There’s not enough air in the room, or maybe there’s too much, and she can’t breathe. The paper— the note, the goddamn note— crumples between her fingers and it’s too loud, it’s too much. 

Where’s her suitcase? 

Gwendolyn pushes herself off the ground, staggers a few steps before flinging a hand out to cling to the wall. Her head is swimming. This doesn’t make sense, Mildred had promised to stay, they’re going to get _married_ , for God’s sake…

Mildred’s suitcase isn’t in the kitchen. It’s not under the bed, when Gwendolyn manages to move over there, and it’s not in their wardrobe, either. There’s no suitcase, but the keys to the car are still in the little bowl by the door, and if Mildred left on foot Gwendolyn might be able to catch up. 

So she pulls on a pair of pants and a shirt, hopes it’s dark enough to disguise the fact that she’s got no undergarments on. Not that she really cares— Mildred is gone, and without Mildred, is any of this really worth it? 

The gun is still in the glovebox compartment of the car. She’d left the gun behind, she’d gone into a situation she knew was bad with no gun. Oh, god, Edmund is going to kill her— 

Gwendolyn pushes the thought as far away as she can. “Goddammit, Mildred,” she curses as she throws the car into reverse. She kicks up a lot of dust, enough to make herself cough as the wheels of her car hit the road. 

Maybe if she drives fast enough, if she can find the right direction and get there quick enough, she can find Mildred and convince her to come home. 

She drives up and down the road, routes they would take to a different beach, to the bar, to the doctor’s office, to the market. Everything and anything she can think of, until she nearly runs out of gas. She doesn’t speak to the attendant other than to thank him. He blessedly doesn’t ask her. 

She holds out hope that when she gets back to their apartment, Mildred will be there. That she’ll apologize and look exhausted from walking and Gwendolyn can hold her close and tell her never to do that again. 

But Mildred isn’t there. 

There’s a note, crumpled on the floor next to Gwendolyn’s side of the bed, and Gwendolyn has woken alone. 

Mildred is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...hi?
> 
> Mildred's letter is based on [ Sullivan Ballou's letter to his wife Sarah](https://www.pbs.org/kenburns/civil-war/war/historical-documents/sullivan-ballou-letter/#/), which is a beautiful piece of American history that launched my hyperfixation with the Civil and Independence wars in America. Middle school was a weird time. Anyways, as pretty as I think my note turned out, it was heavily guided by Sully. Poor Sully, poor Sarah. I can only hope they're together again. 
> 
> I hope you don't hate me, but if you gotta, scream below. I'll try to update soon. Love and hugs to you, bbs <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been nearly ten days since Mildred has left Gwendolyn. She runs into someone who might've, at one point, been a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Angst, Guns, Injury, Character Death
> 
> I am sorry in advance that there is no fluff, but next chapter will be better! I promise! 
> 
> Also, a reminder that at no point will Gwendolyn or Mildred die. I am not about to do that. Yes, there will be character deaths (I think 3), but no gays are dying in this here fic! 
> 
> Make yourself a cuppa or a good snack and get cuddly. Be good to yourselves. I love you!

Three days. 

It’s been three days since Mildred woke up and wrote her heart down on paper for Gwendolyn, kissed her sleeping face and left her behind. 

It hadn’t really been hard to get away, especially with Gwendolyn sleeping. It ached, but it had been easy; go to the restaurant, smile sweetly, order a cab. Take the cab to an ammunitions store, explain to the clerk your husband sent you to buy a Colt M1911, pretend to stumble over the numbers. You never know what you might run across in Mexico, a lady on her own during the day, do you? Take another cab to the train station, suitcase in hand, and sit down at the cafe there. Get a Café de Olla and a newspaper.

Read. Research. Pretend your heart hasn’t jumped out of your chest, isn’t retracing your steps, fleeing back to the woman you left behind. Pretend your hands don’t shake any moment your mind slips, or your eyes don’t sting when you look at your left hand. 

It’s been three days of near-torture, hunting for Edmund, but if it keeps Gwendolyn safe, she’ll do it for the rest of her life. 

She’s in the forest, now, suitcase locked in a room Gwendolyn could probably find if she looked long enough. She’s used a fake name because it’s easier that way, but Mildred thinks Gwendolyn would recognize it. She’s in the forest, with a gun, because the latest stories in the papers have all been bodies found in the woods with red string tied around their necks or wrists or ankles. 

Mildred knows this is a sign. She and Edmund used to talk about red strings, talk about how it felt like they were tied together. It had been a red string around the envelope handed to them when Anna bound them together legally. They’d already been bound in their souls, tied together by circumstance and survival, but they remembered that red string. 

So Mildred walks through the forest, ties pieces of red string to branches, and hopes she’ll run into Edmund. So he doesn’t run in to anyone else. 

It’s been three days for Gwendolyn, too. One day of waiting, doing a lot more praying than she’d done in a long while, waiting for Mildred to walk through the door and apologise for being dramatic. A second day of waiting, of panicking now, of calling Betsy and Trevor and Violet, asking if she’d said anything to any of them. 

“Gwenny, I can’t— what?”

“She left, Trevor, she left, she’s gone!” 

A third day of numbness, of lying in bed and ignoring the fact that she’s out of coffee, out of milk, out of food. Jolting upright at a knock on the door, flinging the door open, feeling almost ashamed when her face falls because it’s just Violet and Elina with groceries and a bouquet of flowers and some liquor. 

“Oh, papi...”

Three days without Mildred, and it feels like her world is over. This is worse than dying, she thinks, it’s worse than everything terrible she’s ever experienced. This is the worst of it. 

The fourth day leaves her with an ache in her bones so bad she couldn’t leave bed if she tried. She wonders if perhaps the cancer had merely migrated, not disappeared from her body. She cries, quite a bit, and rests her head on Mildred’s pillow and tries to breathe in the smell of her. 

It’s fading. 

Mildred’s fourth day comes with new information: Edmund has two accomplices. One who joins him in the fray and one who seems to be there as merely a getaway driver. She nearly faints when she sees the picture. She'd hoped it wasn't true.

It’s Charlotte and Louise. 

It wasn’t enough, for Edmund, to take Dolly. It wasn’t enough for him to have Mildred under his thumb. He had to find two more women? He had to take Charlotte, tortured Charlotte, encourage her delusions and turn her into something she was never meant to be— or Louise? Pull Louise away from Betsy, make her nosy simpering self into an accomplice to murder? 

Why isn’t anything ever enough? 

The fifth day brings complications. She knows to look for three people, now, not just one. But it’s difficult to track their route once they cross the border into New Mexico. There aren’t as many kills then, like perhaps they’re saving energy, or perhaps they’ve gotten bored with killing random people. She’s also working on information that’s two days old. 

By day six, all she wants is to be held. She misses the smell of lavender, of Gwendolyn’s cigarettes, of the way their kitchen smells in the morning when they’ve just brewed coffee. She misses accidentally sipping from Gwendolyn’s cup, sputtering through it, the way Gwendolyn would always laugh when she did so. She misses Gwendolyn’s teasing smirk, her comforting hands, her gentle lips. She misses, and she wants, so much she cries with it. 

But she has a job to do. 

Gwendolyn spends days six and seven without Mildred by the sea. Sometimes she swims out into it, thinks about never coming back to the shore, just letting the water take her. She isn’t sure when she last ate, but she isn’t hungry. She sleeps on the beach, in the alcove where she held Mildred, and wakes to the sound of the waves crashing and seagulls screaming. She manages to push herself up off the sand. 

She manages to get back home, take a shower, but she doesn’t get past the bed. Mildred’s nurse’s pin is still sitting on her nightstand. She lays back down on the bed, stares at the ceiling, and weeps. 

No matter how deep into the forest Mildred goes, all the strings she leaves behind, she hears the ocean. She hears the ocean and she wants Gwendolyn. But to keep Gwendolyn safe, to keep her alive, she has to find Edmund before he finds her. 

It hurts until it doesn’t anymore. It hurts until the pain leaves nothing but numbness, until it’s all robotic routine. 

_“Don’t leave me, Mildred, please don’t leave me.”_

It’s been almost ten days when Mildred comes across someone else in the woods. She’s got her Colt tied around her hips, a slipknot in red string poised beside the gun. She’s startled when she sees pale skin and dark hair out of the corner of her eye. No one else comes through this wood. 

When she turns, right hand already shaking over the pistol at her hip, she finds Louise staring back at her with a large hunting knife in her hand. 

“Mildred Ratched.”

She says it with all the hatred Mildred is used to. Mildred wonders where the almost-friendly quality of the woman went. 

“Louise.” 

_REACHED HOME STOP NO SIGN OF L STOP NO SIGN OF STRUGGLE STOP AM SCARED_

The anger builds in Mildred, until it somehow pushes through the numbness she’s let cover her over the past few days. “You’ve scared Betsy.”

You left Betsy. You left her, alone and scared and worried for you, and you’re traipsing around the woods. 

Louise scoffs. “Betsy doesn’t care about me. The moment she became head of the hospital, she stopped caring about anything other than herself.”

“That isn’t true,” Mildred protests. Betsy had helped Mildred, or at least tried to, shown her mercy and care despite knowing all the monstrous things she’d done. Betsy had tried to help Edmund, too, and been scarred for it. 

Louise rolls her eyes. “Sure, she gave me a job. I already had a job. I went from being in charge to being bossed around, Ratched.” 

She says Mildred’s name like only the first three letters matter. 

Mildred closes her eyes, just for a second, and pushes away the thought that Louise doesn’t deserve a friend like Betsy. If that’s true, what does that say about Mildred? 

Instead, she rests her hand on her pistol and asks, “Where’s Charlotte?” 

Louise scoffs, turns and paces off to the right, kicking at leaves as she goes. Mildred follows her with her eyes and shoulders, tries to keep herself mobile. “Charlotte got picked off.” 

Mildred’s heart sinks. Another death on Edmund’s hands, another spot of blood on her own. 

“She got picked up when we crossed the border. Same shrinks at San Luis. Can’t see how they’ll keep her in now that she’s gotten free before, but—“ she shrugs. “Not my problem.”

There’s a sense of relief there. Charlotte isn’t dead. But there’s also the lingering guilt— 

Mildred knows how Charlotte will be kept. She wishes things were different, wishes Hanover hadn’t been stupid enough to shove Charlotte in a closet, wishes Charlotte were getting the treatment and help she deserved. 

“Sweet wheels you bought for baby brother, by the way,” Louise simpers. “Drives real smooth, purrs like a kitten.” 

Mildred stiffens. The money she’d given Charlotte. Oh god, had she caused that, too?

She tightens her hand around her pistol. “Where is my baby brother, Louise?” 

Louise sighs, paces back towards the left as she waves her hands in the air. “Oh, you know. Around.” 

“Louise.” 

“Ratched.” She stops pacing, stares at her for a moment. She advances a few steps forward, and Mildred takes one back before they both freeze at a noise. And then Louise laughs. 

It’s a bitter noise. Mildred tastes bile. 

“You see, Mildred,” Louise starts, disdain dripping from her voice, “you think you’re special. You’ve always thought you were special. That you’re better than everyone else, deserve more, that you’re smarter than everyone else, but you’re not.” 

She takes another step forward. Mildred knows she ought to be running. She ought to run, and hide, and draw Edmund out of hiding until it’s him and Mildred and not Louise, because if something happens to Louise that will hurt Betsy. 

Mildred knows she’s been responsible for too much pain. She can’t be responsible for any more. 

“You’re nothing special. Which is why no one will notice when you’re gone.” 

There’s something in the last few words that tears Mildred back to the present. 

_“I do love you, my sweetness.”_

It’s that one moment of preparation that lets her duck away from Louise’s lunge. It’s not enough, though, and the blade of Louise’s hunting knife slices through the flesh just below her right shoulder. 

Mildred feels it, the cold slice of metal through warm skin. She feels the heat of the blood it draws from her. She feels the way the blade curves back towards her front as Louise tries to right herself, to recover from the lunge. 

It’s a reflex. She doesn’t mean to do it. 

But then the gun has gone off, and it’s warm under Mildred’s hand, and her hand shakes as Louise stumbles back, covering the spot where her ribs meet. 

“You bitch,” she gasps, eyes wide, lips already too-red. “You shot me!” 

“Louise—“

Mildred goes to take a step forward and Louise staggers back, hand still over the wound, her other arm coming out to keep Mildred away. She coughs, and it’s bloody, and Mildred reaches her as she falls to the ground, hunting knife clattering away. 

“Louise, Louise keep your hand there, hold it down,” Mildred says as she covers Louise’s hand with her own. “Pressure, Louise, you need to keep pressure so the blood doesn’t—“ 

Louise’s free hand comes to grip Mildred’s right arm. There’s blood running over her fingers, Mildred’s blood. There’s blood between Mildred’s fingers, Louise’s blood. 

Louise stares up at her until her fingers go slack. Until there’s nothing left behind her eyes, until the blood doesn’t feel so hot and once again, Mildred is left defeated. 

She tries to get up, ends up stumbling and falling back on her butt, arms behind her and legs kicked out. There’s a dead body in front of her, and it’s her fault. She killed Louise. 

And Betsy is going to hate her for it. 

The blood— her blood— is still trickling down her arm. It’s cool by the time it reaches her hand. Her arm hurts, it stings, it burns, and for a moment she wonders if that means the blade was poisoned. But only for a moment; the memories of her childhood tell her that this is just how it feels when something cuts through you. 

She stares at Louise’s body a few moments more, nearly hyperventilating, before she realizes she needs to leave. She can’t face Edmund like this, he would certainly kill her. And she needs to take care of this cut before she loses a more significant amount of blood. 

So she pushes herself up, pulls the scarf she’s had around her neck out from beneath her shirt. She ties it around as much of the wound as she can, pulling tight with her teeth and her other arm, and hopes the fabric will at least slow the blood down. 

She staggers back towards the road, and she winces at the pain and guilt, and she hears the ocean, and she thinks of one thing only— 

_Gwendolyn._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...hey how we doin folks? 
> 
> Feel free to scream if you need to. Next chapter will be better, I _promise_ , okay? <333


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mildred tries to patch herself up and takes a leap of faith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relevant tags: Angst, Fluff, Fear, Injury
> 
> Hiiiiii bbs. Y'all okay? I didn't keep you waiting too long? 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. Originally, when I first considered this fic, I thought we'd be here by chapter 2 or 3. So uh... obviously this fic is longer than I thought it would be. But! Here we are! 
> 
> Enjoy, and as always, grab yourselves something comforting <3

_Gwendolyn._

It’s the only thing Mildred can think as she stumbles into her motel room. It’s not as comfortable as the apartment she shares with Gwendolyn. 

_Gwendolyn._

If Mildred is hurt, if Louise is dead, then Gwendolyn is in danger. If she can’t find Edmund right now, immediately, then she’s putting Gwendolyn in danger. She can’t have Edmund trying to take revenge on her, killing Gwendolyn because she killed Louise— 

She sways in her half-kitchen, stomach turning over itself. Oh, god, Gwendolyn. _Gwendolyn._

She’s got to stop the bleeding in her arm. If she can’t make it back to Gwendolyn, she can’t protect her. She’s probably dehydrated, low on sugars, if she can just sit down and fix all of this— 

She draws a glass of water first, hands trembling as the adrenaline leaves her system. She’s parched, but as soon as the water hits her lips, she feels like retching. So she sets it down and searches through what she’d brought with her. 

Most of her medical supplies were left with Gwendolyn. That’s where they belonged, where they would be helpful. But Mildred always travels with at least bandages, sometimes antiseptic if she could bag it. Not so now— now all she has are the gauzy strips of somewhat-sterile fabric that will stick together if you press them hard enough. 

She doesn’t have a sewing kit with her, either, and it’s probably not a good idea to go try and get one at the moment. She doesn’t have the alcohol to clean the needle and thread with anyway. She hasn’t even got vodka for the wound. 

The wound, which is still oozing blood, though at a rather slower pace now that she’s got it nearly-tourniquetted. The wound, which she needs to clean. 

The rest of herself, dirtied up from fumbling around on the forest floor. She probably needs a shower, and she can at least superficially clean the wound in the shower, and a hot shower sounds good right now. So she shuffles off towards the bathroom, pauses to take a deep breath when she gets dizzy, and starts the water up. 

It’s not a habit of hers to close the bathroom door. Not with Gwendolyn; when she’s with Gwendolyn she leaves the door open, an invitation to join or watch or talk to her. But Gwendolyn isn’t here, so she closes this door. 

It hurts.

The shower hurts, it stings in a way that she hasn’t felt in a very long time. She remembers what a nurse had told her once, back when she had just signed up for the army, when she’d gotten her first injury overseas. “It stings because it’s clearing out any dirt. If you can’t feel the pain, something’s wrong.” 

So at least she can feel the pain. 

She’s still extremely dizzy, particularly after she finally takes the scarf— completely ruined— off. It couldn’t stop the bleeding forever, though, and she has to make sure it gets cleaned. She should get stitches, it’s a deep enough and rough enough gash. But she doesn’t have a thread and needle, the hospital is too risky, and all she’s got is the gauzy bandages she keeps. 

So Mildred manages to drag herself out into the main area of her motel room, brace herself on the edge of the bed as she wraps the bandage as tight as she can around her own arm. She won’t cut off the circulation, but she’s got to at least try to stop the bleeding. 

She manages to force some water down her throat. She’s parched, still, but it feels wrong to drink. Upon opening her cabinets she finds she’d bought some soup to cook— or maybe it had been left by the last resident, she’s not sure— along with her bologna and white bread. Everything looks like too much effort, and she just wants to sleep.

Get some rest. 

_Gwendolyn._

The thought jolts her back to being alert, and she reaches for the bread and bologna. 

It’s not hard to get a cab back to her apartment with Gwendolyn. She takes her suitcase, leaves the scarf and blood-spattered coat in a trashcan behind the motel office. She leaves her key and enough money to cover her stay in the office itself once she’s called the cab. 

The difficult part is fishing her apartment key out of her pocket, warring with herself as to whether she should use it or knock on the door. The difficult part is seeing Gwendolyn’s car parked, looking like it hasn’t moved in days. The difficult part is lifting her left hand and rapping her knuckles against the wood. 

The difficult part is hearing frenzied shuffling inside. The difficult part is getting her key into the lock while her hands shake so much she can barely see the brass. The difficult part is forgetting that the doors open inwards, trying to pull them out before remembering and pushing them in. 

_Gwendolyn—_

Gwendolyn is standing there, feet braced apart at shoulder width, right arm holding a pistol up at shoulder height, left bracing it, eyes fixed solidly on the door and mouth set in a grim line. She’s backlit, half-behind the leather chair that sits by their fireplace, white curtains billowing around her. There’s a rose-gold halo around her head that highlights the way the evening sun has silhouetted her. 

She’s heaving breaths in, but she’s alive.

And pointing a gun at Mildred. 

“Gwendolyn.”

The gun lowers slightly, and her lips part, and she lets out a shaky “Mildred?”

Mildred takes a step forward and Gwendolyn staggers slightly. The gun drops from her fingers— lands on the seat of the chair without going off, a miracle— and she stumbles towards the mantlepiece to her left. There are tears in her eyes, and Mildred can see her knees about to buckle. Mildred can’t help herself. 

She drops her suitcase, kicks the door behind her closed, and moves towards Gwendolyn, never once taking her eyes off the other woman. 

Gwendolyn collapses with a small cry before she can get there, ends up in a heap on the floor. 

“Gwendolyn!” 

“No,” she whimpers, hands coming up to her temples, “no, please, no.”

Mildred freezes inches away from her, and Gwendolyn is shaking, her eyes closed as tears stream down her cheeks. She’s managed to curl in on herself, hands still shielding her face from the world. 

“Gwendolyn? Gwendolyn, it’s me,” Mildred pleads. She falls to her knees beside Gwendolyn, hesitates to reach out to her. Gwendolyn shakes her head, knocking it against the floor despite the cushion of her own hands. “It is, please, Gwendolyn, please look at me.”

She does, and her eyes are rimmed red with hours of crying. There’s pain in the ocean-blue depths, and it’s pain caused by Mildred, and she could die seeing that pain. Knowing she made Gwendolyn hurt like this. 

“No,” Gwendolyn whimpers, and it’s like a stab to the chest. Like where Louise had meant to hit. 

Mildred doesn’t answer her verbally, but gently works her hand between Gwendolyn’s and her temple, drags their intertwined hands to her chest, pushing as hard as she can against her upper ribs. “I’m here,” she repeats, her own voice shaking as the stinging starts behind her eyes. “Please, Gwendolyn.”

Gwendolyn’s eyes press closed as she lets out a sob, hiccups air back in. Another long, shuddering exhale, and then she’s tearing her hand away from Mildred, pushing herself up enough to scramble back against the wood of the mantlepiece. Mildred is helpless to keep her close. 

Gwendolyn slips away, sitting up while heaving in a breath, hand covering her mouth. She hugs herself, rocks forward slightly, lets out a sob of “Why?” 

Mildred closes her eyes as she feels her own tears spill forward. “I— I left a note—“ 

“You _promised_ ,” Gwendolyn nearly hisses, and Mildred can see how hard she’s gripping her own sides. God, she’ll have bruises there if she doesn’t stop, Mildred has to make her stop. “You promised, and then you left.” 

Mildred swallows around the guilt, the pain. “I did it to protect you, Gwendolyn, I’m sorry—“ 

Gwendolyn shakes her head again, gritting her teeth against a sob that leaves her whole body trembling. “You can’t— I can’t— I can’t—“ 

Mildred reaches out, frames Gwen’s face in her hands. “I won’t,” she says. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Gwendolyn, it was stupid, I’m so sorry.” 

Gwendolyn simultaneously grabs at Mildred’s collar and pushes her away. Mildred tries to keep herself steady. It’s the least she can do right now. 

And then Gwendolyn lurches forward and smashes their lips together. 

It’s salty with tears, and yet it’s the sweetest thing Mildred has ever tasted. She melts into it, against Gwendolyn, wraps her arms around Gwendolyn’s shoulders and sighs out a breath. Gwendolyn’s lips slide against hers, hungry, demanding, and Mildred forgets how to breathe, forgets everything but the smoke-tinged taste of Gwendolyn’s tongue against hers. 

Her lungs scream for air, though, and she gasps in a breath against Gwendolyn, tugging her closer. She can practically taste the smell of lavender, of a cigarette smoked just moments ago, of the coffee ground this morning. She drags herself closer, into Gwendolyn’s lap, and she’s relieved to feel Gwendolyn’s arms wrap around her waist and pull her in. 

A hand comes up to drag itself down Mildred’s arm and it brushes over the cut. Mildred whimpers, and it’s not the kind she usually lets out at Gwendolyn’s touch. Gwendolyn pulls back, her eyebrows furrowed. 

And she notices the white gauze peeking out under the capped sleeves of Mildred’s blouse. “Oh, god,” she breathes, fingers folding up the sleeve immediately, gasping at the sight of a line of blood among the white gauze. “Mildred, what happened, oh, darling—“ 

“It’s nothing,” Mildred breathes, tries to duck back in to kissing Gwendolyn. She doesn’t want to stop, she just wants to kiss her until Gwendolyn’s pain is gone, until she’s convinced Gwendolyn she’s not going anywhere. 

Never again.

Gwendolyn pulls back, and there are still tears in her eyes. Her eyes that are so blue, so striking, that seem to pierce through Mildred’s very soul. 

“You’re bleeding,” she insists, hand laid over the bandage gently. “Please, Mildred, who did this to you?” 

Mildred wants to shake her head, wants to lift herself up and insist it’s nothing. Coax Gwendolyn into bed and hold her close. Keep the events of the morning from her. 

But she can’t— she owes this to Gwendolyn, after breaking her trust for a second time. “Louise,” she manages to say, face pointed away from Gwendolyn. 

Gwendolyn sucks a breath in through her teeth, and the hand on her arm comes to cup her chin, turn her face back to Gwendolyn’s. Mildred blinks at the sight of Gwendolyn’s expression, steely and focused. Her voice is even, almost terrifyingly so, when she asks, “And where is she now?” 

“Dead,” Mildred responds, and her voice cracks. There’s a touch of surprise in Gwendolyn’s eyes, the slightest kick up of her eyebrows. “I— I shot her.” 

“Good.”

It rolls through Mildred, the way Gwendolyn says it. It’s a dark noise, like thunder, like the rumbling of a volcano as the people below prepare to flee. It forces her eyes closed and a shudder goes through her. 

Gwendolyn’s hands are still shaking as she pulls Mildred in for another kiss. This one is more familiar, less desperate, still tinged with anger and grief. But it’s claiming, it shows Mildred that Gwendolyn still wants her, still needs her. The bite to her lip before Gwendolyn pulls back is almost punishing before Gwendolyn runs her tongue over the spot to soothe it. 

Gwendolyn’s hands are too shaky to just be that way from adrenaline. 

“When did you last eat?” Mildred asks, leaning their foreheads together, running her fingers over Gwendolyn’s hands and up her arms. Gwendolyn doesn’t answer, just breathes shakily against Mildred. “Gwendolyn? When did you last eat?”

It’s a long moment before Gwendolyn answers. “I’m not sure.”

She sounds vaguely ashamed. Mildred feels her stomach drop with guilt. 

“Violet and Elina came by a few days ago, made me eat something— I— I haven’t had much of an appetite.” 

Mildred grits her jaw against tears again. She’d left Gwendolyn to protect her, and yet left her open to so much harm. And she hadn’t even taken care of the real issue, only left her more exposed to that danger. 

“Mildred?”

Gwendolyn says her name like she’s afraid Mildred will disappear. Her fingers grip at Mildred’s hips, keep her close. Mildred slides one hand back around Gwendolyn’s shoulders to press their chests together, hopes it will sync their hearts up again. At least this way she can feel Gwendolyn breathe. She tangles her other hand in Gwendolyn’s hair, massaging at the back of her head with gentle fingers. 

This has always helped Gwendolyn relax, no matter how bad the headaches got. 

And Gwendolyn’s shoulders do come down a little. “You need to eat,” Mildred breathes. 

“I couldn’t,” she admits. “I felt sick, I couldn’t, not without you.”

Mildred bites her lower lip until she tastes blood, until Gwendolyn pushes her forehead against Mildred’s and lets out a low noise of protest. “I’m here now,” she says instead. “Please, eat, for me?”

Gwendolyn nods weakly. She lifts her hand to Mildred’s arm. “Will you let me look at this?”

Mildred breathes out shakily. She’d rather not, but she knows she needs help. She can’t keep slowly bleeding like this. “Okay,” she says quietly. 

Neither of them move. Not until Mildred shivers, and Gwendolyn wraps her arms around Mildred’s back and buries her face in Mildred’s neck. 

“I love you,” Mildred says, and it’s the steadiest her voice has been since she’s walked back into her home. Her home with Gwendolyn. “I love you, I’m so sorry, Gwendolyn, I love you.”

Gwendolyn shakes her head against Mildred’s skin. “I love you. Don’t leave me again.”

“Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How y'all doin? Am I forgiven yet? :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mildred needs stitches. Gwendolyn calls for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Fluff, Cancer (mentioned), injury  
> Not tagged, but important warning: there are mentions of miscarriage in this chapter. It's small, during Gwendolyn's story time, but I do want to give you a heads up.
> 
> Hey who else feels absolutely fucked by _Run_? 
> 
> Hopefully I'll be able to crank another chapter out before my work starts back up again in two days, but I hope you enjoy this one for now! I have some special plans for the next chapter >:) 
> 
> Please do be careful with this chapter if needles/stitches scare you/squick you out. You'll want to skip from "This will hurt," to "you're almost there." And then skip the paragraph that starts "Mildred doesn't mean to, but". 
> 
> See you on the other side! :)

Gwendolyn doesn’t let her go. 

Her hands grip at Mildred’s hip, her waist, her left shoulder, anywhere she can reach. And Mildred is so exhausted she can barely stand, so she leans into Gwendolyn and lets her guide her around their apartment. 

Their apartment. She’s home. 

It worries her, that Gwendolyn can’t recall eating anything past ‘a few days ago’. Gwendolyn insists that she hasn’t been hungry, that she’s not felt anything really, and that worries Mildred more. It forces her throat closed with guilt. Gwendolyn runs an apple under water and bites into it, still holding Mildred by the waist. 

The exhaustion of the past week and a half slides into Mildred’s bones and takes her strength away. She lets Gwendolyn hold her, uses Gwendolyn to keep herself upright. Gwendolyn encourages it. 

Until she’s eaten her apple, and her hands are a little more steady, and her brain is working a little better. “Let me see your arm,” she says then, and Mildred tries to push herself up. 

She can’t. 

She makes a low noise, one of confusion and frustration. Gwendolyn notices— she’s quick to move Mildred to one of those leather chairs by the fireplace, shove her down into it. Mildred’s eyes move to the other and she sees the gun. 

“The trigger,” she says, somewhat weakly. 

“What?” Gwendolyn asks, undoing the buttons on Mildred’s blouse, tugging it up and out of her skirt’s waistband as she does. 

“The trigger, it’s still…” 

Gwendolyn pauses, looks back up to Mildred’s face with her eyebrows furrowed. She follows Mildred’s line of sight, and her shoulders come up again slightly, the frown on her face deepening. But she finishes unbuttoning the blouse before she says “Take this off” and moves to the other chair. 

Mildred watches her uncock the trigger. She watches her unload the bullets— all the barrels were full— and stride over to the mantle, place the bullets in a little box and the gun on it’s side, chamber still raised. She watches Gwendolyn’s hands, so sure with these movements. 

What had she done to Gwendolyn? 

She’s still struggling with her shirt when Gwendolyn comes back to her, stills her twisting and guides the blouse over her right arm. She hisses in sympathy when she sees the bandage.

“How long has it been this way?” she asks, and her features have softened a bit, but she’s still worried and it hurts Mildred. 

“I’m alright,” Mildred protests, lifting her left hand to gesture in vague circles before it crashes back down on the arm of a chair. “I’m just a little sleepy.”

“No,” Gwendolyn says, and it’s firm, and Mildred’s eyes snap to hers. “Don’t fall asleep on me. How long have you been bleeding, Mildred?” 

Mildred can feel the fight go out of her. “This morning. I don’t know, a few hours?”

Gwendolyn brushes her fingers against the wound and Mildred hisses. “Has it been bleeding this badly that long?”

“It was worse before,” Mildred says. Except she doesn’t feel like she’s saying it. It feels like the words are coming from somewhere else, just happen to be in her voice. 

“Jesus, Mildred,” Gwendolyn breathes, and Mildred wants to ease the panic in her voice. But, God, she’s so tired, and if she can just rest a moment— 

Gwendolyn squeezes at the wound and Mildred jolts up with a cry. “I’m sorry, darling, I really am, but you cannot fall asleep. Do you hear me? Mildred?”

Mildred thinks she nods, but Gwendolyn curses and moves away from her. She hears the sound of Gwendolyn on the phone— she hadn’t thought of the phone, she could have been calling Gwendolyn every day, how absolutely stupid of her— and then Gwendolyn has come back to her. “Hold on just a while longer, sweetness, okay? Mildred?”

Mildred wants to say okay, I’ll hold on. She wants to ask who was on the phone, who Gwendolyn called, how much longer would it be. But Gwendolyn is here, and she’s surrounded by lavender and the lingering scent of smoke and ground coffee and she’s home, and the lack of sleep and the sudden safety is catching up to her. 

And Gwendolyn is talking to her, squeezing at her knees, asking how long it’s been since she’s eaten or had something to drink. And Mildred is trying to answer, she really is. It’s just hard, when Gwendolyn smells so good, and her face is so beautiful, and she’s right there, within Mildred’s touch. 

She stiffens when there’s a knock on the door, tries to push herself up and lurch towards the mantle. But Gwendolyn pushes her down and kisses her forehead. “Stay right here,” she murmurs, and Mildred can only nod. 

The next voice Mildred hears feels so distant she’s barely even sure it’s there. “Did she tell you when this happened?”

“This morning. I’m sorry, Fernanda, I—“ 

“She disappears for nine days and comes back telling you she’s been stabbed? Don’t apologize. Start thinking of moving.” 

And then Fernanda De la Peña is kneeling before Mildred, eyes set, fingers snapping open a small bag. “Are you with me?” she asks. 

“Doctor?” Mildred asks. 

“Have you eaten?” Fernanda asks, head bobbing around as she looks at the bandage Mildred has wrapped around herself. Mildred feels almost ashamed, it must be sloppy. 

“A— a little.” 

“You need more.” It’s stern, and yet it has the same gentleness to it she’d always used when speaking to Gwendolyn. She’s not angry. 

It’s a relief. 

“Have you had any water?” Mildred nods at the question. “Only a little?” Another nod. “You need more of that, too. You can’t recover if you don’t stay hydrated. You know that.” 

Her accent is coming out more, and Mildred thinks she sees her jaw working as starts to unwrap the bandage. Has she made Fernanda upset? Let another person down?

“Dio,” she hears, and it’s so soft. Gwendolyn comes closer and covers her mouth with her hand. “Puta _madre,_ mija, qué hiciste? Que pasó?” 

Mildred shakes her head. She’s terrible with Spanish, Gwendolyn has always been better at it. She has no idea what Fernanda is asking her. 

“Hold this,” Fernanda commands over her shoulder, and then Gwendolyn’s hand is wrapped around Mildred's bicep, and she’s genuinely trying not to scream in pain. “You need stitches,” Fernanda says, almost apologetically, “it’s going to hurt worse than that.” 

Mildred laughs despite herself. There’s no way it can hurt worse than the blade. There’s no way she can hurt more now. 

She dimly registers a bottle being uncapped, more gauze brought out and positioned on Mildred’s lap. Gwendolyn’s hand squeezing her arm is almost comforting in the way it hurts now. It keeps her here, keeps her present. 

A curved needle lands in Mildred’s lap on top of the gauze, joined by a length of surgical thread, and then Fernanda says “Switch with me” to Gwendolyn. 

Gwendolyn moves quickly to Mildred’s left, wipes her hand on a towel she’s brought in from the kitchen. Mildred stares up at her and Gwendolyn cups Mildred’s cheek in her hand, keeps her looking up at Gwendolyn. “Hi sweetheart,” she says, takes Mildred’s left hand when she raises it and squeezes gently. Her eyes skirt over to Fernanda’s hands, and her eyes widen for a brief moment before she looks back to Mildred. “Eyes on me,” she says softly. 

Mildred nods. God, she’s tired. She just wants Gwendolyn to hold her like this until she falls asleep, but she’s asked for Mildred’s eyes, and she owes her that much. 

Then her arm is on fire, it’s actually on fire, and it hurts, and neither Fernanda nor Gwendolyn are letting her move, and she’s crying out against Gwendolyn’s shoulder and clutching at her thigh hard enough to leave bruises. Gwendolyn holds Mildred’s head to her chest, presses her lips to the top of her head, murmurs sweet little words of encouragement as Fernanda cleans the wound. 

The burning subsides and Mildred can feel the antiseptic rolling down her arm, cool tracks of liquid that burn far less against unmarred skin. “This will hurt,” Fernanda warns, and then there’s a sharper pain, one that reminds Mildred of the knife in her skin. But it’s accompanied by a pulling, a tugging, and as much as Mildred wants to scream and run, she knows she needs to stay still. So she pushes her face into Gwendolyn’s chest instead, breathes unsteadily and hopes this will end soon, that Fernanda’s fingers are quick.

Her fingers are precise. They move at a steady pace, and Mildred can feel where she is as the needle loops through her skin. “Almost done,” Gwendolyn murmurs into her hair, “you’re almost there.” 

Mildred whimpers in response. She tries to count the beats of Gwendolyn’s heart. Ten— maybe twelve, she might have restarted counting— beats later, the burn of the antiseptic is back, and then there’s gauze wrapping around her arm again and Fernanda is taking the towel from Gwendolyn’s hand and brushing it gently along Mildred’s arm. 

Fernanda waits until Mildred’s body relaxes just the slightest bit. “Alright?” she asks, and Mildred nods. “Okay. Hey—“ 

She takes Mildred’s chin in her hand, bringing it away from Gwendolyn’s body. “Oye, mija.” Mildred squeezes her eyes closed, clenches her jaw to wake herself up. “You need to eat, preferably something with iron, and then drink. Lots of water. Then you need rest, real rest, no trying to run away.”

Gwendolyn’s hand squeezes at Mildred’s shoulder. Mildred leans further into her. 

“These,” she says, tapping gently at the bandage she’s left around Mildred’s arm, “can come off in ten or so days. Keep them clean. Mmm?”

Mildred nods, and Fernanda lets her chin go finally. “And stop getting stabbed.” 

Mildred laughs despite herself. The noise that comes from Gwendolyn sounds more like a sob, and Fernanda reaches up to squeeze her hand as she stands. 

The next three days are a little hazy for Mildred. She feels much stronger after some food, as much water as she’ll let Gwendolyn pump into her. She manages to convince Gwendolyn to eat with her, every time she’s convinced to choke something down, and the color and life returns to Gwendolyn’s face. 

She falls asleep in Gwendolyn’s arms, every single time, and it’s a relief to wake up in them too. She whispers apologies when Gwendolyn can hear them and traces them on Gwendolyn’s skin when she can’t. Gwendolyn holds her close, doesn’t let her out of her sight, surrounds her with safety and love and home. 

Mildred wakes before Gwendolyn on the fourth day. She shifts slightly, just to wiggle her own arm up and between them. 

Gwendolyn is so beautiful when she sleeps. She’s stunning, always, but the way she looks when she’s asleep is downright heavenly. The lines that have worked their way into Gwendolyn’s skin— deepened in the past few weeks, making that lump in Mildred’s throat grow— barely show when she’s this relaxed. 

Mildred still wants to touch, smooth her fingers over the places where Gwendolyn’s smile has squeezed her eyes shut. She traces the lines next to Gwendolyn’s eyes, sweeps her fingers down the curve of Gwendolyn’s cheek, over the gentle bow of her lips. She runs her index finger over the barely-noticeable bump in Gwendolyn’s nose, smiles when her nose wrinkles in response. 

She’s moved to tracing Gwendolyn’s brows when her eyes blink open. There’s a look of surprise, and that lump in Mildred’s throat is back, making it hard to swallow. She’ll spend the rest of her life trying to make up for that, for the fact that Gwendolyn is now surprised when she wakes up with Mildred in front of her. 

“Good morning,” she rasps. 

Mildred bumps their foreheads together with a sigh, slides her hand into the softness of Gwendolyn’s hair. “‘Morning.” 

“How do you feel?” Gwendolyn asks, rubbing their noses together. 

“Haven’t been up long,” Mildred admits. “Just before you, really.” 

Gwendolyn hums in answer. Neither of them move for a while. 

Things seem to return to a sort of normal, for Mildred, around day six. She doesn’t get hit with dizzy spells quite as much, and changing her bandage feels less like torture and more like something she just needs to do. Gwendolyn still helps her with it, and she’ll never deny that. 

She still whispers apologies into her skin, even as Gwendolyn tries to shake them off, insist that she doesn’t need to, just needs to stay. But Mildred does need to, needs Gwendolyn to know she means it, she’s staying, and she is sorry she ever left. 

On day eight, Violet and Elina drop by. They call first, and it makes Mildred jump out of her chair by the fireplace, has her pleading with Gwendolyn not to answer the phone. But Gwendolyn does, tells them that Mildred is still taking it slow. Violet insists they’re coming to check in on them, and they’re bringing food. 

Really, Elina cooks while Violet perches on the edge of Mildred’s chair and coos at her. Gwendolyn flits between helping Elina and simply watching Mildred from the doorway of the kitchen. “I’m fine,” Mildred insists. Violet shakes her head and says she’s not, scolds her for scaring all of them in the same breath. 

It turns out that Elina and Violet seem to think Mildred was kidnapped. Either Gwendolyn didn’t show them the note, or they have more faith in Mildred than she possibly deserves. Elina grabs her face and kisses her forehead— a rare display of emotion for her— and utters an “I’m so glad you’re back and safe.” 

“Me too,” Mildred answers, and she means it. 

Mildred spends most of her tenth day back in Gwendolyn’s arms tense. She’s never liked stitches, whether she did them herself or on someone else. Gwendolyn promises she’ll be by Mildred’s side the entire time.

As if she’s left Mildred’s side once.

Mildred doesn’t mean to, but she works herself up after dinner. She stares at herself in the mirror until she’s not seeing her face, but the face of a twelve year old girl biting down on a spare scrap of wood as she drags a sewing needle through her own skin. Her heart beats too quickly, her breath is uneven, her eyes start to blur until the present becomes the past becomes the present.

And then Gwendolyn is there, with a soft “Incoming” whispered between them before her hands move around Mildred’s arm and waist. She pulls Mildred close until the chill across Mildred’s bare shoulders warms against Gwendolyn’s chest. 

“Do you want me to?” Gwendolyn asks, gently unwrapping the bandage. 

Mildred shakes her head. “I just want you to hold me while I do.” 

She needs to control the pain. She needs to hold those strings. But she wants Gwendolyn there, needs proof that even after everything she’s done, Gwendolyn won’t decide she’s too much trouble. 

Gwendolyn wraps both arms around Mildred’s middle, her forearms a welcome warmth against Mildred’s stomach. She’s taken her blouse for the day off again, just so it’s easier to get at her arm, but it’s left her feeling more than a little exposed. 

“I’ve got you,” Gwendolyn murmurs as she tucks her chin over Mildred’s left shoulder, “I won’t let go.” 

Mildred hates stitches. It hurts, taking them out, and she cries nearly the whole way through. Gwendolyn breathes steadily against her and pets over the muscles in her stomach that jump with the pain. She whispers words of comfort to Mildred and tells her how proud she is when she’s finished. 

Mildred braces herself against the sink and sobs. She lets Gwendolyn sweep the discarded thread into the little trashcan, dab at her skin with a wet towel, re-dress it in a new bandage. Then she turns in Gwendolyn’s arms, presses her face into Gwendolyn’s neck, and lets herself fall apart. 

She’s calmed slightly by the time Gwendolyn has a fire rolling. The nights have started to get cool, and Mildred’s skin is already chilled from the exertion of earlier, even with Gwendolyn’s robe now draped over her shoulders. She has her head in Gwendolyn’s lap, kneeling before her, arms stretched out so her fingers brush Gwendolyn’s hips. 

Gwendolyn cards her fingers through Mildred’s hair, strokes along Mildred’s left shoulder with her free hand. “Darling?” 

Mildred props her chin up on Gwendolyn’s knee. She’d like to say how much she regrets leaving, how selfish she feels for taking all this attention and still being a mess. She’d like to tell Gwendolyn how much she loves her and needs her and will never leave again. 

She can’t get those words past the lump in her throat. So instead, she asks, “Will you tell me a story?” 

She almost regrets those words as she’s saying them. They’re childish words, and Gwendolyn looks surprised at them, and she’s about to brush those words off as unimportant and foolish when Gwendolyn strokes her knuckles against her cheek and says, “Have I ever told you about my parents?” 

The answer is no. For all the things they’ve discussed, the parents of Gwendolyn Briggs have never been mentioned. Gwendolyn hesitates to bring them up— knowing all that Mildred has been made to endure, it doesn’t seem fair. 

But Mildred asks for a story, and asks Gwendolyn to tell her about these mysterious people, and Gwendolyn folds herself in half to kiss Mildred’s cheek before she starts. 

“For a glorified longshoreman, my Dad’s hands were...quite gentle.”

Mildred blinks in surprise. Gwendolyn strokes at her cheek again, looks up at a cracking sound from the fireplace, back to Mildred, before she continues. 

She explains how her mother wasn’t exactly socialite rich, but her family had money, and she was the only child.

Her dad was middle class. Solidly. Wasn’t a match for her mother, not if Maria Blithe wanted to social climb.

Maria Blithe loved the sea, though. Not stiff parties and overly rich food and constant critiquing of her posture. She loved the forgiveness of the waves. The sand in her toes.

Maria had those debutante behaviors drilled into her. Jonathan Maynard, though, made her forget them. He was charming, and he loved the sea, and he never once doubted she could swim. He also never tried to stop her from charging into the sea head first, no matter what dress she was wearing.

And he was brave. And soft. Even if he smelled like fish all the time.

It took a long time for the Blithes to even see him. But when Maria smiled at him, Gwendolyn’s grandfather knew, and he cut his losses and started setting aside money for his grandsons to attend college one day. Lord knows Jonathan wouldn’t save enough for it.

See, Gwendolyn Maynard came from a stock of good people. They had their patterns and performances for society, but the line behind her blood fell back on the essential teachings of the Church: love thy neighbor. All of thy neighbor. Without judgement, because only the Almighty can judge.

Gwendolyn heard it countless times from her Grandfather, and her Pop.

But Gwendolyn Maynard saw the way Jonathan held Maria’s hand. She saw the way he held her, when they lost the baby that would have been the middle child. She saw the way he touched her mother for the next few months, with reverence and apology and light, never pressuring, always forgiving.

Maria Maynard was a strong woman. Her hands sometimes seemed cold to Gwendolyn. She was strict with schoolwork and curfew and health, especially after that horrible summer.

But Maria also taught Gwendolyn how to bake. Gwendolyn was no good at it, but her mother loved her anyways. Plus they could garden together, and Maria always praised how strong Gwendolyn was, bringing her soil and tools and pulling up the weeds so cleanly.

Maria taught Gwendolyn to paint. Walls, mostly.

Jonathan didn’t want Maria to teach Gwendolyn to swim until after Beatrice was born. He seemed terrified of it, would cradle Gwendolyn’s little head in his hand and hold Maria tight with his other, and the fear in his eyes would break her mother’s heart.

Gwendolyn knew her father was strong. She’d been tossed around by him, taught how to box by him, watched him work enough times to know that.

She was eight when Beatrice was born. Her parents had been trying for so long that Gwendolyn had forgotten it would even be possible.

But Jonathan refused to let Maria lift so much as a toe, practically carrying her around the house. Maria softened in pregnancy, let her strict demeanor down more often, made silly comments and dirty jokes that surprised Gwendolyn and made her father laugh. He didn’t seem surprised, like he had heard them before.

And then she had a baby sister.

Well, there was a little more pain before that. Gwendolyn remembers hearing her mother wail, her father holding her tiny body on his lap. His arms were strong around her as they rocked, keeping her close, his lips pressed against the back of her head as he sang _“hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird.”_

But his hands were gentle. His hands left no marks, even though she could tell he was so nervous. 

She’d told her dad things would be okay. She wrapped her little arms around his and waited for her mother to be okay again. She decided she’d never be pregnant, because it seemed like an awful lot of trouble.

When the doctor brought them in, Jonathan bolted to Maria’s side, dragging Gwendolyn with him. Gwendolyn felt like she was flying.

Beatrice looked so tiny in his hands. He kept them soft against her head, tears in his eyes, staring at the purple-pink screaming mass with so much love that Gwendolyn thought he might die.

Maria had the same look in her eyes. Gwendolyn climbed in closer and she pulled her firstborn close. She was sweaty, like when they had been gardening in the summer heat.

Jonathan’s hands were so soft when he brought the baby down so Gwendolyn could see her.

“This is Beatrice,” Jonathan said. “She’s your baby sister.”

Beatrice screamed. “You’re very loud,” Gwendolyn said in all her childlike glory, and her parents laughed. “But it’s very nice to meet you. I think they’re going to make us share a room.”

There were no grandsons to go to college. Gwendolyn was the first born, and she wore pants and smoked cigarettes and worried her mother sick to death with the shit she’d get up to.

Her father stiffened a bit with age. But his hands were still soft.

There was only one time when they weren’t, and Gwendolyn remembered it clearly, because she’d wanted to do the same thing.

Some boy had been hanging around Beatrice, and Beatrice was too young and innocent at twelve years old to know love did not mean letting a boy stick his hands up your skirt. Gwendolyn had been home on a break from college, and Beatrice had mentioned it to her, and Gwendolyn had pulled her baby sister close and told her that she wasn’t wrong or broken or ugly now, but that boy had no right.

Beatrice adored her. Beatrice cried. Gwendolyn hated when her sister cried.

So Gwendolyn told her father as they smoked and drank bourbon on the porch. Her tone was dark, her hands clenched. Her father had reached over and slipped a gentle hand into hers and squeezed. “I’ll kill him before you do,” he’d said softly.

But Gwendolyn had to protect her sister, and when she spotted the godforsaken boy in his stupid-ass truck with his pompous-ass father, she’d nearly popped an artery, she’d screamed so loudly.

Her father had come outside immediately.

It was the only time she’d ever seen her father’s hands in actual fists. Even when he taught her to box when she was five he’d never made a fist.

She’d watched her father pull the father out of the truck first, pound his fists into the man’s stomach with one great crack to the nose. The man bled profusely as Jonathan railed him for poor parenting, insufficient manhood, unchristian ideals.

The son was next. One great crack with the back of an open hand across the cheek was all it took to send the boy quite literally spinning.

“Don't you ever touch a girl like that again,” Jonathan had spat. “And stay the hell away from my daughter.”

Then he’d come back to Gwendolyn, cupped the back of her neck with his now bruised hand and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Come on, kid, let ‘em bleed.”

And his hands had gone soft already.

Maria wrapped his hand with minimal words. It was all looks between them.

The Maynards were a strong family. They’d come from good stock. Beatrice had married her high school sweetheart, managed to marry upwards and stay happy and in love all at the same time. She had five kids, the last time Gwendolyn knew anything about it.

Jonathan Maynard passed from a sudden heart attack in 1942. He was too young for it. Beatrice wept in Gwendolyn’s arms at the funeral and all she could think of was _“hush, little baby, don’t say a word…”_

Maria Maynard seemed to waste away after that. Her heart was sick, her lungs didn’t seem to work properly anymore.

It was four months later when a doctor called Gwendolyn and asked her to sit down.

“Your mother has cancer. It’s spread all over— I wouldn’t know where it started, now. It would be generous to give her two months. You might want to think about coming back to Connecticut.”

This confuses Mildred, because hadn’t Gwendolyn said she would be going back to live with her mother? Gwen laughs gently and says “A different kind of mother, darling,” and Mildred wants to know more. She wants to know more about Maria Maynard, and more about this other mother, and more about Gwendolyn. She suddenly feels like she’s starving for her. 

And Gwendolyn tells her: 

Maria Maynard lasted six months to the day without her husband. They were buried in the same plot. Beatrice did not weep; she’d run out of tears.

Beatrice fell into a deep melancholy after that, and Gwendolyn had tried to write. She’d never stopped, actually, she just stopped getting responses. About every six months she considers going to Connecticut herself, walking up to the house that used to belong to Beatrice, and forcing her way in until her baby sister is her baby sister again, not a distant stranger.

But Gwendolyn had never forgotten the softness of her father’s hands, or the love evident between their parents. And she’d promised herself that one day, if she ever found her longshorewoman or not-quite-socialite, she’d treat her the same way.

Because that was what love meant.

Her hands come up to cup Mildred’s face again, and her hands are so soft, and Mildred can’t help the tears that roll down her cheeks. Maybe they’re tears of grief, for a couple she never knew; maybe they’re tears of jealousy for a life she’d never known; maybe they’re tears of gratitude that she somehow found someone with such soft hands. 

Gwendolyn smiles, and it’s as soft as her hands are, and her eyes have gone bluer somehow with the tears waiting to spill. “I love you, Mildred. You’re so much more than I ever could have wanted, ever thought could happen, and I love you, so much.” 

Mildred hiccups around a sob and grips at Gwendolyn’s wrists. “I love you,” she echoes. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“Then don’t.” It’s a quiet little thing, but it’s there. “Come here.” 

Mildred goes into her lap willingly, straddles her hips and buries her hands in Gwendolyn’s hair. Gwendolyn slides her arms around Mildred’s back and tilts her own head up. “I love you,” Mildred murmurs, and Gwendolyn closes her eyes. Mildred sweeps her thumbs along her cheeks, brushing away the tears that fall. “I love you,” she insists, and the smile comes back to Gwendolyn’s lips. 

“I love you too.”

Mildred leans down to kiss her, and Gwendolyn tugs her close. Her hands move to the small of Mildred’s back and the place where her shoulders meet, and she feels caged in in the best way. She feels safe. 

Wrapped up in Gwendolyn’s arms, beneath her soft hands, gentle lips pushing and sliding against her own, Mildred feels safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right! Family history!! 
> 
> I originally had that idea in a conversation with Comicbooklovergreen, and I'm real heccin glad I saved it, because good gods do I love it. 
> 
> I do hope you enjoyed the absolute fluff (with a side of injury repair) of this chapter. A small amount of angst will return soon. :)
> 
> My Spanish is based on what I heard and somewhat spoke in Miami, and while I did a small amount of research on how the Mexican dialect differs from the Cuban/Venezuelan dialects, I still may be wrong. Apologies for that. Puta madre? Puta la madre? Puta de la madre? Whichever one you use, it's basically "motherfucker", so. 
> 
> Ooh! Youtube alerted me that Jessica Kellgren-Fozard uploaded [this video today on Lesbian marriages in history!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oPyh9ahINsU&ab_channel=JessicaKellgren-Fozard) Lesbian professor wives!!!! 
> 
> Check in below, tell me how y'all are doin! <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fall has burst forth from Summer, but it doesn't keep up that momentum for very long. Fall becomes a season of healing and catharsis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Fear, Healing, Grief
> 
> Y'all... I'm so sorry. 
> 
> We went back to work just after I posted the last chapter, and things have been markedly more stressful. On top of that there's been some new developments and honestly, I think we're going to be lucky if I can update this once a week. I'll try, but I cannot promise anything. 
> 
> That being said, this chapter includes some grief-related stuff, and hinges on a cultural practice that I don't actually do. I did some research and talked to some folk, but if there are inconsistencies and/or inaccuracies, I take full and total responsibility for that. 
> 
> This little interlude was supposed to have another part to it, but I couldn't include it without a) probably delaying updating another four days and b) feeling like I was diminishing the other stuff. 
> 
> I love you all very much, thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy <3

As dramatic as the Autumn began, it’s a quiet season. 

It’s full of anxiety, but it feels like a moment frozen in time. Days pass and the sun rises and falls. It happens around Mildred and Gwendolyn, but not to them, it seems like. 

There’s hesitation, now, in touches, in words. The hesitation swells and ebbs like the tide. Some days are better than others; some days are spent wrapped up in each other with kisses and lovely words and panting breaths; some days are spent in quiet, physically near one another but scared to touch for the fear they might each be a mirage. 

Trust is like a flower, they say. Once it has been broken, once it has wilted, you must work to make it grow again. 

Mildred is not familiar with this. She fears it, really, in it’s newness, in the lack of a right and perfect way to make it happen. She is used to relationships that break. Ones that splinter and hurt and cannot be repaired. Ones that she blows apart and leaves behind, or that leave her behind, with ending boundaries that are only sometimes fuzzy. 

This is not like the relationships she is used to. This relationship seems to demand that she stay, that she work, that she try. And it’s vaguely terrifying, the fact that she wants to stay and try and work, and the fact that Gwendolyn seems to feel the same. 

Gwendolyn reassures her that she’s still wanted, that she’s still loved, that she hasn’t lost anything. 

_Incoming._

They don’t return to the Sapphic bar, not initially. It’s too scary, too risky, leaves them both feeling like they’d be putting each other and their community in danger. It’s the middle of October before they feel safe being anywhere outside their little apartment by the sea. 

Mildred jumps at every ring of the telephone. She doesn’t beg Gwendolyn to let it go as much anymore, not after the third or fourth time Gwendolyn tells her that really, if there’s a threatening phone call, they’ll handle that. But her heart thuds in her chest every time Gwendolyn picks up the phone, cracks away at her ribs until Gwendolyn says “Oh, hello,” and covers the receiver to tell her who’s called. 

Elina offers to drive to the bar so that Gwendolyn and Mildred can get as drunk as they like, but Gwendolyn is hesitant about that and Mildred categorically refuses. The first two times, they don’t make it all the way to the bar— the first, Mildred begins to suffer from a tight chest and pounding heart as they leave their apartment, and can’t breathe by the time they’re ten minutes down the road; the second, Mildred drives, and suddenly turns the car around when they’re already most of the way there. 

Gwendolyn is unendingly patient with her. Mildred does not understand. She tries to apologize, but Gwendolyn waves this off, insisting that if she doesn’t feel safe, they won’t go. 

The third time, Mildred drives. They make it all the way to the bar. Mildred cannot bring herself to go inside, but allows Gwendolyn to lead her to the back patio, where Violet spots them and opens her arms with a grin. 

Despite everything, it relaxes Mildred to see her. It relaxes Mildred to see Elina, an arm protectively draped across Violet’s hips in her own lap. It relaxes Mildred to spot Fernanda’s dark hair swept up in a French twist she must have learned from Elina, dancing and laughing with an unfamiliar brunette inside. 

“Serena didn’t last, huh?” Gwendolyn asks. 

“Pobrecita,” Violet murmurs, and that’s that. 

Later, Fernanda comes outside, kisses Gwendolyn and Mildred each on the cheek, face still flushed from dancing. “Let me see,” she demands, and Mildred slides her arm out of the light cape she has on. Fernanda hums thoughtfully. 

“It’ll scar, but it’s healing nicely.” 

Mildred slides her arm back under her cape, leans against Gwendolyn for comfort. She doesn’t drink. Gwendolyn has one glass of a red wine that she offers Mildred— Mildred refuses. 

Violet is almost saddened by the air of the event, her smile slipping every once in a while, hazel eyes narrowed in concentration. There’s been another moment of thick silence when she says “What are you two doing for All Saint’s Day?”

Mildred blinks. “When is that?” 

Elina chuckles. “November first and second.” 

Gwendolyn shrugs. “I don’t think we have any specific plans, do we?” Mildred shakes her head, then tucks it into Gwendolyn’s neck, breathes in lavender and old smoke until her heart stops racing. 

“You should join us for Día de los Muertos.” 

Mildred knows enough Spanish to know what that means. It makes her stiffen, makes her blood run a little cold. Are her friends more treacherous than she had thought? Had she managed to tangle herself up in another mess of pain and anger and fear? 

When she looks up at Gwendolyn, she finds only curiosity. But Fernanda notices the fear in Mildred, notices it’s something Gwendolyn can’t quell. “It’s not like that, mija,” she says, reaching out to squeeze Mildred’s knee gently. “It’s a day for honoring the dead. To remember them.” 

Mildred does not want to remember the ghosts that haunt her, the dead that walk by her side. 

“Oh, that sounds rather lovely,” Gwendolyn utters. 

Mildred looks up to her. Her eyes shine, and her lips are almost curved up, and there’s a sense about her face that’s wistful and serene. 

Mildred does not want to remember her ghosts, but Gwendolyn does, holds them in her heart with such fondness. 

Violet leans forward. “Come to our home,” she says as she takes Gwendolyn’s hand. “We will teach you.”

Mildred owes a great deal to Gwendolyn after all that she’s put her love through, so she agrees. Fernanda gently refutes the invitation laid for her, says she’ll be travelling the coming week to Morelos, back to her family’s ancestral home. 

Violet and Elina’s home is not far from the bar. It’s also a lovely thing, though a bit squat. Violet takes Mildred’s hand before she can take her cape off, on the morning they visit, and greets her with a kiss to the cheek and her left palm over Mildred’s new scar. “Come,” she says, “let me show you.” 

The outside of their house is stone, but it would be hard to tell that if one did not look closely, as the outside walls are covered in a sort of ivy that grows thick and almost bushy. Many of the inner walls have been left in stone, with miniature alcoves that hold prayer candles and small lamps, let light bleed from room to room. Violet lights a candle to the Virgin Mary as they pass from the entryway into the kitchen, another to Jesus as they move through the living room and it’s cosy couches and already-lit fireplace. 

They find Elina in the yard behind the house. She seems impervious to the chill that’s starting to creep into the air, leaning back in a chair with her shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, a few of the buttons at the front of the shirt left undone. She smiles around her glass of scotch when she sees Gwendolyn, reaches a hand out for her. 

They grasp each other’s hands firmly for a few moments, and then Elina passes Gwendolyn her scotch. Gwendolyn takes a swig, considers the garden. “Dahlias,” Elina says, gesturing to a patch of smoky purple and vibrant pink sunlike flowers. “I’d never seen one before coming here.” 

Gwendolyn hums as she hands the scotch back. “And the orange?”

Elina sits up a little more, sets a bare foot on the grass. “Ah. Marigold.” 

She leaves it at that, and Gwendolyn turns to find Mildred being led around the yard by Violet. The sun-kissed woman has Mildred’s fingers tangled in her own as she points out little weeds in the spaces between the bricks that surround them, keeping prying eyes away despite their secluded location. 

Mildred knows when eyes are on her; when she feels Gwendolyn’s gaze, she looks over her shoulder, and the smile she gives Gwendolyn is softer than the brush of a flower petal. It warms Gwendolyn more than the scotch does. 

It’s the first time either of them has felt at peace when the other is more than an arm’s length away.

Violet and Elina’s home has the potential to be cold and achey, with all the stone and hard wood and ceilings that feel just a little closer than they should, but it manages to be warm. 

Elina lounges on a deep red couch directly across from the fireplace as Violet darts about the room, fetching little snacks and cups of atole and pillows. Gwendolyn settles in a chair next to the fireplace; Mildred finds herself sitting on the floor, perched on a pillow Violet insists she use, beside Gwendolyn’s legs. She leans her head against Gwendolyn’s knees, and the fingers that card through her hair are soothing and warm. 

Eventually Elina manages to catch Violet as she darts by, pull her to sitting on the couch. “Stay,” Elina demands, and Violet huffs, but she turns to kiss her wife anyways. 

Mildred looks down with a blush. As much as she has finally become used to Gwendolyn’s affection, to women showing each other love at the bar, it’s much harder to conceptualize these moments. She’s still working at it. Gwendolyn’s fingers brush at her temple and her eyes flutter closed, a deep breath making it’s way into her lungs. 

It feels like she’s breathed for the first time in weeks. 

“So,” Gwendolyn says in a lull in conversation, “your… day of the dead, I suppose? How does it work?”

Violet grins, and it strikes Mildred that the woman feels her emotions with her whole body. Her grin takes over her face, and her skin seems to light up with it. 

“We make altars to our dead,” she begins, gesturing over her left shoulder. Mildred shudders and Gwendolyn’s hand falls to her shoulder. “Not to worship, but— to give them a place to rest, once they have journeyed back to us.” She looks over her shoulder at Elina, who runs her fingers along Violet’s thigh. It’s a subtle gesture, but a reassuring one, an encouraging one. 

This must be more vulnerable than Mildred thought. 

“We offer food, and drink, and we tell stories to remind ourselves who our visitors were. We share happy memories and leave poems, if we can.” 

Gwendolyn nods, takes a deep breath and squeezes gently at Mildred’s shoulder. Mildred looks up and attempts a smile. 

She would like to hear more stories of Gwendolyn’s parents. 

Violet stands again, and Elina huffs, and for a second Mildred is worried she’s about to see a marital spat. But Violet pulls Elina up with her, holds out a hand to Mildred and Gwendolyn. “Come, let me show you.” 

Violet leads the three of them into a room she hadn’t shown Mildred yet; it’s a side room with wide, open windows that let in the cooler autumn breezes. There’s a smaller fireplace in this room, and several small tables set up side-by-side. The tables are covered in vibrant fabrics and it’s clear where some of the pillows in this house have been hiding. There is an empty photo frame at the center of each table, with dried flowers already piled around the flames, and unlit candles scattered across the tables. 

“Many families will spend this time creating calveras,” Violet says, wrapping an arm around Elina. 

Mildred blinks in confusion, visually searching the room for some sort of hint, until Elina awkwardly clears her throat and says “I am not especially comfortable with skulls.” 

“Oh.”

“We make compromises,” Violet says, squeezing Elina to her side and smiling up at her. Elina smiles back. 

Gwendolyn asks a few more questions, moves towards the tables and clasps her hands behind her back as she leans in. She treats the altars, as Violet calls them, with respectful curiosity. Violet answers with patience that resembles the way Gwendolyn answers Mildred. 

They have lunch with Violet and Elina, which Elina thankfully pulls Mildred into the kitchen to help prepare. She feels herself relax when there’s distance between her and the altars to the dead. 

“It’s not as awful as you’d think,” Elina murmurs to her, passing both a knife and some bread her way. Mildred rests the bread on the counter, slices through it in long, smooth motions. 

“How long have you celebrated... with Violet?” Mildred can’t bring herself to say it, so she busies her hands with gathering plates, guessing at where her friends keep their things. 

“Oh, four years now?” She pauses between the sink and the stove, a filet of fish in her hand. “About that long.”

“Have— had you ever done anything like that before?” 

Elina hums as she lights the stove. She flips the fish in, and then her body blocks the pan and Mildred can’t see it. “Not like this. We grieve our dead, where I’m from, when they pass, and remember them— mostly at random.” She shrugs, and Mildred turns back to the bread, setting a slice on each plate. “I think… I think sometimes that it helps, to have this day to bring back the grief, the good and the bad.” 

Mildred doesn’t respond. She isn’t sure how to. She can’t imagine Violet sad, not truly sad, not bone-deep and wailing sad. 

“There is joy in it, you know,” Elina says, turning her body to look at Mildred. “There’s sadness, but much of that fades after the first year. It’s more like…” she takes a moment to think, her brow furrowing before she says, “like relief. Relief as if whoever you are remembering has simply been on a long trip, and now they have returned home.” 

It does sound rather lovely, when put that way. 

At home that night, Gwendolyn takes out her suitcase. Mildred freezes from her spot on the bed, stares at Gwendolyn and wonders what she’s done wrong. 

Gwendolyn looks up with a gentle smile. “I’m just looking for something,” she murmurs. “I won’t be but a minute.” 

Mildred nods, but she’s not convinced. Not until Gwendolyn pulls out something rectangular, shuts her suitcase, puts the blasted thing back under the bed. She climbs in bed next to Mildred and opens an arm for Mildred to climb under. 

When Mildred presses herself to Gwendolyn’s side, she’s met with a picture in black and white; a woman with a lace cap and flowers in her hair, pearls around her neck, a lace veil that perfectly matches the patterns of her dress. She’s holding an enormous bouquet of flowers, and her smile is demure. But her eyes— those are Gwendolyn’s eyes. 

The man, hovering slightly above and to the right of the woman, has a huge grin, crinkling his eyes nearly away. His hair is smoothed back, and his black suit is pressed neatly. His bowtie is crooked. His hand is hidden among the flowers, but the longer Mildred stares at it, the more she thinks he’s holding his wife’s hand. 

“My parents,” Gwendolyn murmurs as Mildred’s fingers stretch out to stroke the glass. “On their wedding day.” 

“They’re beautiful.” It’s not very loud, when Mildred says it, but it’s sincere. “You look so much like your mother.”

Gwendolyn chuckles. “I was always told I had her nose and her eyes.”

“You have your father’s smile.”

Gwendolyn turns her head, presses a kiss to Mildred’s temple, breathes her in.

“Are you going to use this picture? For them?” Mildred asks. 

“I am,” Gwendolyn says. “I think… well honestly I think my mother would be horrified.” Mildred has to giggle a bit at that. She wonders if Maria’s look of horror is the same as Gwendolyn’s. “But I think my father would have been touched. In the end I think they both would have been.” 

There isn’t much for Mildred to say; she’d never known Gwendolyn’s parents, only has the precious details of their origin and a few scraps of their stories. So she can’t say whether that’s the truth. She can say she knows that Gwendolyn loves them, and if there is joy in remembering them— 

“I think it’ll be nice,” Mildred murmurs. 

Gwendolyn smiles against her. 

Gwendolyn seems almost surprised, as the days go on, that Mildred doesn’t uncover any photos from her own suitcase. That Mildred does not seem to need to mourn anything. Or perhaps that she doesn’t want to. 

“I spend so much time fighting my ghosts,” Mildred says one day, exhaustion making her voice heavy and sad. “Some of them aren’t even dead. I can’t imagine inviting those ghosts back into my life.” 

On November 1st, Mildred dresses in grey. She cannot seem to reconcile dressing so colorfully on a day meant to commemorate the dead. So she dresses in grey, paints her lips red, and dons her pearls. She stares at herself and remembers her last drive into Lucia State Hospital; her brother and Charlotte passing the other way, Huck’s body, Betsy’s tears. 

She remembers returning home to Gwendolyn, who held her with all the love and acceptance in the world.

Gwendolyn dresses in color. She pulls on her royal blue trousers and her green button down— the same one she’d worn when Mildred confessed her love, pushed her way in past each argument. She leaves her hair loose, colors her own lips by kissing Mildred, and smiles until Mildred forgets just why she’s so afraid of today.

“Ready?”

Violet opens the door with a plate of something that smells delicious and very strongly of corn. “Lindas,” she coos, swings her hand with the food back inside, turns her cheek to them and requests, “besos!” 

She’s granted a kiss by Gwendolyn and Mildred each, and only has to smack at Gwendolyn’s hand when she tries to take the mystery treat from the plate. “Too hot!” Violet scolds. “Patience!” 

“She has none,” Mildred says dryly, and Gwendolyn pinches at her side. 

They have lunch, and it turns out the mysterious bundles are tamales. “We have many,” Elina says with a smile, “and we only need a few for our guests.” 

Mildred nearly asks who she means, until she remembers. She breathes deeply, smiles at Gwendolyn when she feels a squeeze at her knee. 

Violet drags her outside to cut fresh marigold, conscripts her into sewing them into a chain, as Elina helps Gwendolyn set up an altar for her parents. She tuts at Mildred for the rather drab clothing, points out her own bright purple dress, Elina’s red pantsuit. “Today is a day of celebration,” she reminds Mildred, “not pain.” 

She drapes a pink shawl over Mildred’s shoulders, which Gwendolyn uses to pull her into a kiss when they return with their marigold chains. It relaxes Mildred, a little bit. 

The process of watching Elina light candles for prayer and to guide the way is surprisingly relaxing, too. Mildred watches with fascination as she moves around the house, filling it with flickering light, warming up the space better than the sunlight through the windows could. Violet tugs cloth into place, drapes strings of marigolds over the tables and between them, and straightens pictures. She sends Gwendolyn to go pick some dahlias, reminds her to pick the brightest ones. She sends Mildred out for roses. 

Mildred finds the rosebush only after Gwendolyn points it out to her. It’s hidden behind a palm tree, a short and squat little thing, not much bigger than a tree stump. She worries over taking too many roses, then worries over crushing them, until Gwendolyn is standing beside her kneeling form. “Darling,” she starts, and Mildred looks up to a fond smile. “Why don’t you use your shawl to carry them?” 

So she does. 

The house smells delicious when she and Gwendolyn enter. Violet takes the flowers from them, wraps the shawl around Mildred’s shoulders again and chides her to stay warm. 

And then it’s quiet. 

It’s quiet for a while, with Violet simply looking over the altars, with Elina wrapping her arms around Violet’s waist from behind. It’s quiet with Gwendolyn shifting from foot to foot, waiting for approval, and with Mildred standing stock still in fear of disturbing the silence. 

And then Violet begins praying. 

She’s leaning back against Elina as she does, her head tilted back and face to the sky. Her body nearly goes limp with the words. Elina’s arms keep Violet’s body afloat, and her chin falls to Violet’s shoulder, and she murmurs soft little agreements to words Mildred doesn’t understand. 

Mildred has no idea what to do when someone prays. It’s never been something she was exposed to, beyond Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn has only ever asked for Mildred to stay, to sit with her while she does. So she looks to Gwendolyn for guidance. 

Gwendolyn’s head is bowed. Her eyes are closed, her hands clasped. Mildred tries to copy the pose, but finds herself breathing strangely, shallowly, trying not to disturb the air in the room. 

Gwendolyn reaches for her hand, tangles their pinkies together, and Mildred looks to her. Gwendolyn’s eyes are still closed, but there’s a soft smile on her face. Mildred can’t help it— she rolls Gwendolyn’s fingers in hers until their palms and wrists are pressed together, until she can feel Gwendolyn’s heartbeat, until she has to step closer and wrap herself around Gwendolyn like the ivy on the walls of Violet and Elina’s home. Gwendolyn lets her, squeezes her hand, places her own hand over Mildred’s at her bicep. 

And then the air in the room changes. 

It’s fuller. The candles all sway for a moment, and Mildred would blame it on an afternoon breeze, but they seem to go in different directions. When they still again, Mildred can feel the prickle of eyes on her, of someone— maybe many someones— looking her up and down, sizing her up. She presses closer to Gwendolyn, feels the shift in the air at that. 

But it’s just Violet, and Elina, and Gwendolyn, and her. She can’t see anyone else. 

Violet stops after another few moments, turns her head to breathe Elina in. Elina’s hand smooths over her stomach; Gwendolyn stays silent, though her thumbs brush over Mildred’s knuckles. 

Mildred stays completely still, feels the eyes on her move away and back again. 

Violet sort of slides to the ground, with Elina guiding her, and then she finds a pillow and rests it between herself and a wall, props herself up. Elina moves to be next to her. “Sit,” she says.

Gwendolyn glances around, unsure. “Anywhere,” Violet says. “Just sit.”

Gwendolyn leaves the room briefly, and Mildred whines high behind her teeth. She hadn’t realised how unmoored she’d feel without Gwendolyn by her side. So she stays where she is, trying to shut out the eyes on her, regardless of the two familiar pairs she feels. The concern of her friends washes over her, but she waits. 

Gwendolyn reappears with a whole couch cushion, furrows her brow and frowns slightly at Mildred’s expression. Mildred sways towards her. Gwendolyn passes her, but drops a kiss on her forehead as she does, then sets the cushion against a pillar roughly in the middle of the room in front of the altars. She’s within a lean and an extended arm of Elina, who kicks at her extended leg when she sits down with an affectionate huff. 

But she sits, settles her legs open slightly, and holds her arms out to Mildred. Mildred goes to her instantly, settling herself in the cradle of Gwendolyn’s warmth. 

She can still feel eyes on her, but Gwendolyn’s arms surround her, holding her in place, keeping her safe. 

“My brother,” Violet says, and she’s back to sounding a little more like herself, “was not always a good man. But he rolled _excellent_ cigars.” 

Elina laughs, and so does Gwendolyn. Mildred wrinkles her nose. 

Elina shares stories of her uncle Mauri. Violet tells stories of her childhood, which sounds remarkably happy for how young her father died, leaving her brother the man of the house at 12 years old. She speaks highly of her mother, of her baby sister. She tells so many stories of the sea, and Gwendolyn shares some of her own, ones Mildred has heard and ones she hasn’t. 

Her voice catches when she tells the story of her father teaching her to float, and Mildred leans back and to the right, presses her lips to Gwendolyn’s jaw. Gwendolyn squeezes slightly around her waist and presses through. 

There’s a dam that seems to break, with that story. There are tears between the four of them. Happy tears, yes, tears at wonderful memories that leave them nostalgic for the sun-shining days of summer breezes and sunburns. There are tears of grief, too. 

“God, I miss them,” Gwendolyn hiccups. “I don’t— I don’t think I realized that.” 

She leans into Mildred’s hand when Mildred cups her cheek, takes shaky breaths that bounce Mildred against her. Elina nudges their feet together and Violet murmurs sympathetically. 

“I wish I’d met them,” Mildred murmurs, barely loud enough for Gwendolyn to hear. But Gwendolyn does, and Mildred feels the tears slide down her cheeks, and kisses them away as best she can. 

She feels feather-light fingers brush her arms, and startles slightly, trains her eyes to the spot. 

There’s no one there. 

Stories that bring tears morph back into stories that bring laughter. Stories that bring laughter give way to contemplative silence. Contemplative silence highlights the glow of the room, the way the altars seem to glow with auras of pinks and purples and blues and orange. The candles burn with high flames that dance in the still air. Photographs glimmer in the dim light, and the eyes in them seem to flit around the room. 

Mildred tries to ignore the way this makes her feel. Watched, unguarded, uneasy. It feels almost wrong, like the four of them are exposed. Slowly, the flames start to diminish. 

“Our guests are tired,” Violet murmurs. 

“So are you.” Violet pushes at Elina’s face, but accepts the kiss Elina insists on placing on her cheek. 

Violet tips herself over, lets Elina guide her head into Elina’s lap. “Sleep,” Elina tells her, running her fingers through Violet’s hair. “Sleep,” she says to Gwendolyn and Mildred. “They won’t go anywhere.” 

Gwendolyn sleeps, leaning her head back against the pillar behind her and holding Mildred close. Mildred sleeps fitfully, tucking her head into Gwendolyn’s neck, breathing Gwendolyn’s scent in. 

She smells the ocean. Gwendolyn does not usually smell like the ocean unless she’s just come from it. 

She cannot shake the feeling that there are other people in this room. 

When she is asleep, she dreams of a tall man with red-blonde hair and gentle hazel eyes smiling down at her. She dreams of a woman with blue eyes and a round face and gentle hands that rest on her arm and promise she’d be loved. She dreams of an old, wizened man who throws bread at geese, and a young boy who will never age past 27 and rolls excellent cigars. She watches these figures move around the room, watches them brush shadowy hands over sleeping forms.

The night is quiet. Gwendolyn helps Elina cook, and Mildred sits with Violet, watches the woman write in looping script she cannot parse in a book that looks older than her. Violet tells her it holds hundreds of stories, some from her own family, some from the mouths of others. 

By the time Gwendolyn and Mildred emerge from Violet and Elina’s home with the photo of the Maynards at their wedding, the sun has begun to tease at the edge of the horizon. The air is somewhat chill, and Violet sends the shawl around Mildred’s shoulders home with her, fretting that other wise she’ll catch a chill. Mildred sleeps through the ride to their apartment, fingers stroking the glass of the photograph in her lap as her mind tosses itself in the waves. 

Gwendolyn wakes her when they arrive, fingers soft against her cheek. “Come inside, darling,” she murmurs, “we’ve had a very long day.”

The apartment is so very quiet, and so very dark, and something about that is entirely unacceptable to Mildred. She cannot express it to Gwendolyn, but she busies herself lighting a fire— or trying to, until Gwendolyn gently pulls her aside and does it herself— and worrying her lip between her teeth. 

When the fire has come to life, Gwendolyn turns to Mildred, tutting at her and using her thumb to pull Mildred’s bottom lip free. “Is that better?” she asks, and it’s so tender that Mildred could fall apart into it, but it’s not quite there. 

Mildred stands, looking around. She takes the lamp off the tiny table between their two fireside chairs, rests it on the chair to her left. She pulls the cushion off the seat of the right chair and tucks that under her arm as she lifts the little table, swings it around to rest by the fire. She sets the cushion down in front of it, flips the shawl off her shoulders and onto the table.

“Mildred?”

She ignores Gwendolyn’s voice, the concern in it, as she opens the door to their back patio. There’s no marigold— _wrong, this is going to be all wrong_ — but there are dahlias, and she picks a few, brings them back in and sets them on the table, returns to the door and closes it.

“Mildred,” Gwendolyn says again, and it’s not a question. Mildred crosses her arms over her chest. 

“I don’t have pictures,” she says, and her voice is small and trembles and she wants to bite her lip again but Gwendolyn will hate that.

Gwendolyn steps closer. “Pictures of who, sweetness?”

“The men I— the _people_ ,” she corrects herself, but then finds she can’t finish the sentence. She gestures into empty air instead. 

“Oh.” It seems to hit Gwendolyn. “Darling, you don’t have to—“ 

“I do,” Mildred snaps, and then she does bite her lip. “I’m sorry. I do. I… I owe it to them.”

“Alright,” Gwendolyn murmurs, tugging Mildred closer until she falls against Gwendolyn. She presses her lips to Mildred’s temple as she shakes. “Alright. I’ll make them some hot chocolate.” 

She does, and Mildred is left staring at the makeshift altar to too many dead men. To Salvatore, to the soldiers, and now to Louise. What does one say when remembering the people one has killed? What does one say to ghosts who want revenge?

“Is this enough?” Gwendolyn asks, bringing out a pot she’s still stirring. Mildred doesn’t respond at first. “Sweetheart? Mildred?” 

Mildred looks up, processes the pot, smiles despite everything. “I…think so. Do we have anything to…?”

Gwendolyn seems to mull that over. “Would corn do? We just cut a whole few ears.”

Mildred nods, and before she can say anything, Gwendolyn has gone to the kitchen again. There’s some clanging around, and then she reappears with a plate piled with loose kernels of corn. 

She places it on the little table. Between the flowers, the hot chocolate, and the corn, the table looks like it could fall over in any direction in seconds. 

It doesn’t feel like enough. Mildred wonders if anything would.

Gwendolyn wraps Mildred in her arms. “Do you want to say anything?” she asks. It’s soft, and gentle, and Mildred wants nothing more than to turn and bury herself in Gwendolyn’s arms and never, ever leave. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, but it catches in her throat. Her voice bounces a few times before she can try again, and her whole body trembles. “I’m so sorry.” 

Gwendolyn doesn’t ask why, and Mildred is eternally grateful. She presses her lips to Mildred’s neck and sways them gently back and forth. 

“I didn’t— I was _awful,_ ” she sobs. It’s only because Gwendolyn is holding her that she stays upright. “I was terrible, and I took you from this world, and I’m so sorry.”

Gwendolyn lets her say these things about herself. Mildred can feel how much she hates it, how much she wants to stop her, but she lets it happen. She holds Mildred close and breathes in quiet, reassuring breaths. Mildred gives up on speaking, feels the darkness closing in around her, wants to push Gwendolyn away so that she isn’t affected. 

But Gwendolyn holds on tight, and Mildred selfishly, selfishly, clings to her. 

Eventually the darkness, the anger, the centrifugal force of it all becomes too much, and Gwendolyn has to catch her when her knees truly give out. Mildred finds herself being lifted, carried the few feet to their bed, deposited gently on the mattress. 

Gwendolyn takes Mildred’s shoes off, reaches up beneath her skirt with barely-trembling fingers and slides her stockings down and off. She presses kiss after kiss to the tracks of tears on her face until Mildred is sitting up and reaching for her, until she has access to the zipper on the back of Mildred’s dress. “Shh, darling, my love,” Gwendolyn murmurs when Mildred wordlessly protests. “Let’s get this off, hmm? You can’t sleep in this.” 

Mildred wants to say that she doesn’t deserve rest. That she doesn’t deserve Gwendolyn, not after everything she’s put Gwendolyn through. Instead, she weakly follows directions, until Gwendolyn has her down to her slip and under the covers. Gwendolyn strips down quickly, is only away from Mildred for mere moments before her body and her warmth and the love she gives are pressed against Mildred again. 

The apartment is terrifying. It’s so dark, despite the fire, and too eerily quiet. But their bed is safe, with Gwendolyn’s lips at her fingers and her cheek and her own lips, and Mildred clings to her as she whispers words of comfort. 

She slips into sleep again, breath stuttering into evenness as she curls her fingers against Gwendolyn’s chest. 

In the morning, she wakes by herself. She can hear Gwendolyn— rough singing bouncing off the walls of the kitchen, the smell of coffee wafting closer— but it’s not enough. Her heart quickens and she spots the shirt Gwendolyn wore yesterday, lunges for it where it sits at the edge of the bed. She brings it to her face, inhales the scent. 

_Lavender. Old cigarette smoke. Coffee. Gwendolyn._

She’d almost given this up. 

She slips her arms into it, ignores how it gaps slightly around her. It’s not warm, not like Gwendolyn is, but the smell helps her. 

“Oh, sweetness, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you’d woken.” 

Gwendolyn is standing there, a cup of coffee in each hand, a slight pout on her face. She’d been making coffee for both of them. She was going to wake Mildred with coffee and Mildred hadn’t slept enough for that to happen. 

But seeing her is such a relief— Mildred swings her legs out of bed, rushes to Gwendolyn, nearly slams into her as she wraps her arms around Gwendolyn’s neck. Gwendolyn lets out a small “oof!” and each mug loses a bit of coffee that splashes to the floor. 

“Gwendolyn,” Mildred breathes, as if she’s missed Gwendolyn for days, not mere moments. 

Gwendolyn softens against her. “Good morning, my love,” she murmurs, turns her head to press a kiss to Mildred’s cheek. “I made you some coffee.”

Mildred eases herself back on her heels. “Thank you,” she utters, leans up again to kiss Gwendolyn as she takes the cup. “I’m sorry, I—“

“Oh,” Gwendolyn laughs, “don’t be. Not for a greeting like that. Just don’t slip in the spill.” She gestures with her now free hand to the little pools of liquid before her hand lands on Mildred’s waist, warm and gentle. 

Mildred processes that Gwendolyn isn’t wearing a top, only the brassiere she’d left on the night before. She’d pulled on some linen trousers, but her top half is nearly bare. Her eyes trace over Gwendolyn’s skin until Gwendolyn chuckles and murmurs an “oh?” at which point Mildred turns tomato red and moves back to the bed. 

Gwendolyn hums, follows behind her, places her coffee mug on Mildred’s side table. She practically crawls on top of Mildred, pressing kisses to her arm, her shoulder, her neck, her jaw, until Mildred is giggling and protesting that the bed will be covered in coffee if she doesn’t _stop_. 

“We can change the sheets,” Gwendolyn rasps. 

“I’m hardly even awake,” Mildred protests, which is an abject lie and they both know it. Gwendolyn takes her mug and sets it on Mildred’s side table. ”The coffee will go cold!”

“I’ll make more.” She pushes Mildred onto her back, runs her hands down Mildred’s sides. Mildred arches up into her hands, reaches up to frame Gwendolyn’s face, pulls her in for a longer kiss than the one she’d used to thank her for the coffee. 

“I love you,” she breathes between kisses, doesn’t leave Gwendolyn room to say anything back. “I love you, Gwendolyn, I love you.”

Gwendolyn hums as Mildred pushes back up against her, fingers tracing in patterns Mildred can’t decode, kisses her until she feels warm and safe and home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How we feelin'? Doin' okay? Didja miss me? Check in below <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mildred and Gwendolyn do some pre-Christmas celebration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Angst, Fluff, Smut, Christmas, Love Language: Gift Giving, Love Language: Acts of Service
> 
> So I didn't go AS long this time?? 
> 
> I dunno, things are still stressful for me right now, but writing this particular chapter helped. I'm thinking there's gonna be four-ish chapters left? I am hoping the next one will be out fairly soon, too. But we shall see, I guess. 
> 
> Side note: If you're as fucked up as I am by the "I thought I knew everything" part, those lines are only slightly altered from one of the ending scenes of Professor Marston & the Wonder Women, which is on Hulu, and you should go watch n o w 
> 
> As an apology for angst-related crimes I have committed, please accept the following smutty smutty gift:

Gwendolyn loves Christmas, and she starts preparing for it early. 

It’s barely the second week of November when she begins to fret that they won’t have a Christmas tree. 

“Gwendolyn,” Mildred murmurs, “we’ll find one, just like we have the past two years.” She’s watching Gwendolyn bring out ornaments from their little alcove where the phone hides. Mildred doesn’t go back there very often, and she’s really not sure where Gwendolyn even hides those ornaments. 

“The trees the last two years have been _small_ ,” Gwendolyn practically pouts. “We ought to have a proper Christmas tree. I haven’t given you a proper Christmas yet.” 

The gentle protest freezes Mildred. A proper Christmas? Does she— is Mildred really— 

“A proper Christmas?” Mildred asks. 

Gwendolyn blinks for a moment at Mildred. “Yes, a proper Christmas. With a tree,” she starts, moving towards Mildred, wrapping her arms around Mildred’s waist. “And a place to put presents, and hot chocolate and gingerbread houses.” She leans down, tips Mildred’s head to the side with a nudge, presses her lips to Mildred’s neck. She pauses just as Mildred is beginning to relax back into her arms. “We won’t have snow, but… we can have everything else.” 

“We’ve had trees before,” Mildred points out over the rasp in her voice. 

Gwendolyn hums and she feels it through her skin. “Those were tiny. We need a real tree, a big tree. One we can fit presents under.”

“I don’t need any presents,” Mildred starts. 

Gwendolyn pulls back, keeps them pressed together, but lifts her hands to Mildred’s face. “Yes, you do,” she insists. “You need all the good things in the world.”

Mildred shakes her head with a smile. “You didn’t let me finish.” Gwendolyn raises an eyebrow. “I don’t need any presents, Gwendolyn, because I have you.” 

Gwendolyn’s smile softens, widens, threatens to take over her whole being before she pulls Mildred in for a tender kiss. Mildred melts against her, slides her hands around Gwendolyn’s back and lets her fingers hang off the tops of Gwendolyn’s shoulders. Gwendolyn nips at her lip gently, soothes the spot with her tongue, presses one, two, three kisses to Mildred’s lips. 

“I’m still getting you presents.” 

Mildred makes a few calls. One of them is to Trevor, while Gwendolyn is out. 

“What,” he says, voice grating just a little, “the _hell_ got into you?!” 

“I’m sorry, Trevor,” she winces. “I— I know it was stupid, I just— I need your help.” 

“Is it for an apology?”

“In a way.”

She hears Trevor sigh over the phone. “You have caused me nothing but trouble since you danced your little feet into my Gwenny's heart.” Mildred winces again, and his voice turns fond. “She loves you so much, and goddammit Mildred, I love you too. When are the two of you going to ease my heart and come back?”

“When it’s safe,” Mildred replies immediately. “It’s not, yet, Trevor, not with…” 

“I know,” Trevor says. It’s quiet, understanding. He understands Mildred far better than she thinks she deserves. “Don’t worry, darling,” he continues, “Andrew and I are safe. We’re staying with an officer for now, saying a case we’re pursuing warrants it. We’re okay.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Mildred responds. 

They’re both quiet for a moment. 

“So what is this favor you need?”

As good as Mildred is at research, Trevor is better. By the time Mildred has gotten Gwendolyn to let her go to the hardware store alone, Trevor has found an actual Christmas tree farm only about an hour’s drive away. She thanks him profusely over the phone, promises to call and report exactly how it all goes down, promises to ask if she has questions about what to get Gwendolyn for Christmas. She even relinquishes their address, tells him she trusts him, ignores the bit of stutter in his breath. 

At the hardware store, she buys a ridiculous string of oversized, coloured bulbs. They look like Christmas lights that have been permanently enlarged by some omnipotent magnifying glass. The attendant assures Mildred several times that they will not break from bumping against the side of a car. “I can show you,” he offers, holding one bulb far above his head, motioning like he’s going to drop the thing.

“That’s alright,” Mildred says, holding a hand out before he somehow hurts himself. “I’ll take the whole bundle, please.”

She comes home and hides the string in the trunk. The next morning, she wakes before Gwendolyn, dresses quickly in a comfortable and warm dress, writes her a note— 

_Just outside. Get dressed for walking. Bring a thermos of coffee._

She wraps the string around the car, then bites at her lip when she realizes she can’t actually open the door with the string around it like this. It takes her a while, and they’ll both have to get into the car through the driver’s side, but she manages to finagle her way into a method that makes more sense. Whoever drives will need to bring the loop Mildred has created back over the side mirror. 

Gwendolyn comes out of their apartment and into the parking lot wearing a sturdy pair of walking shoes, her dark green trousers, and a thin cabled sweater Mildred had bought for her birthday back in May. It’s a lovely, gentle cream color, and Gwendolyn has worn it several times since November began, but it still warms Mildred’s heart to see her wearing it. 

Mildred rushes to her, taking the thermos in her own hands as an excuse to hold Gwendolyn’s for a moment. “Close your eyes,” she instructs, and Gwendolyn follows instructions. Mildred plays with the knitted flap of Gwendolyn’s collar for a moment before taking her hand and slowly leading her to the car. “Alright,” she says, squeezes Gwendolyn’s hand and then taps at her chest lightly, “you can open your eyes now.”

Gwendolyn blinks her eyes open in the sun and squints at the car for a moment, then back to Mildred, who stands and bites her lip. Her brow furrows and she glances back at the car. “Are those…giant Christmas lights?” 

“Yes,” Mildred breathes, tipping herself up onto her toes and bouncing slightly. Gwendolyn automatically brings her hand to Mildred’s waist to stabilize her. 

“Just… because?” 

Mildred nearly rolls her eyes. For as intelligent as she is, Gwendolyn operates at nowhere near full brain capacity for the first half-hour after she wakes. “No,” Mildred utters, “we’re going to get a Christmas tree. A proper one, one that’s under six feet, though, because our ceiling is barely seven feet tall, Gwendolyn—“ 

“Wait,” Gwendolyn interrupts, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. “A Christmas tree? How— did you find a farm?”

Mildred shrugs. “Trevor was extremely helpful.”

“ _Mildred._ ”

“Gwendolyn?”

And then Mildred is in the air, being spun around in a circle, her arms instinctively wrapping around Gwendolyn’s shoulders as Gwendolyn’s near-squeals of excitement muffle themselves in Mildred’s neck. Gwendolyn stumbles just a little when she sets Mildred down, the both of them a tiny bit dizzy. “Oh, darling,” Gwendolyn breathes, her hands warm on Mildred’s face, “thank you.”

Mildred holds Gwendolyn’s hand as they drive to the farm, reads her directions and banters back and forth when Gwendolyn takes a wrong turn. They do not hold hands while walking among the trees, not with the poor boy and his saw following them, but they share warm glances and bright smiles and brush pinkies and yes, Mildred understands now. This is a nice feeling. 

The tree they pick fits perfectly well on the roof of Gwendolyn’s car. The men of the farm strap it down, then give Gwendolyn heavily-accented, rapid-fire instructions on how to safely remove all of it when she gets home. Gwendolyn pretends to listen as if she hasn’t done this a million times before. Mildred is rather impressed. 

She’s more impressed when they get home and Gwendolyn takes the tree off the top of the car with surprising speed and grace. “Doors, please,” she says to Mildred, and Mildred is only too happy to oblige. 

There’s a small argument over where to put the tree— Gwendolyn wants to put it between the kitchen and the fireplace, which Mildred insists is far too dangerous, given the flammability of trees— but eventually it goes in front of the mantlepiece. It will be the first thing they see in the morning, past each other, after they sit up. They spend the rest of the afternoon decorating the tree, though they pause several times when Gwendolyn hears a song they simply _must_ dance to drifting out from the radio. There isn’t much room to dance, but Gwendolyn holds Mildred close and spins them in gentle circles, moves around the apartment and makes Mildred laugh when she dips her. 

They manage to get the tree fully decorated before Gwen simply tosses Mildred onto their bed. Mildred has been pushing her off for most of the afternoon, insisting that they finish the tree, that it be set up the way Gwendolyn wants it to be before they break for any other activities. 

“Trees can be decorated in parts,” Gwendolyn protests. 

“Small ones,” Mildred says, pulling her away from her neck gently. “Let’s finish this now.” 

Gwendolyn looks like she wants to say something about finishing things, but she fixes Mildred with a pout instead and hangs an ornament in the shape of a rabbit. 

So when she is tossed on the bed, Mildred is ready, clings to Gwendolyn through open-mouthed kisses and panting breaths, tries to remember whether they have neighbors this week or she can give Gwendolyn the screams she deserves. 

By the time Gwendolyn is leaving marks on Mildred’s thighs, whispering into her skin that she’s beautiful, she’s gorgeous, stunning, that she’s all Gwendolyn’s, it doesn’t matter whether they have neighbors. Mildred can’t hold anything back, and Gwendolyn isn’t letting her. “Again,” Gwendolyn pushes, curls her fingers and presses a kiss to her clit. 

Mildred’s entire body seizes up, fingers gripping at Gwendolyn’s scalp as she comes with Gwendolyn’s name on her lips. 

She’s boneless, by the time Gwendolyn gives her a break. But she pushes herself up, pulls Gwendolyn’s waist to her mouth, presses kisses there and nips gently. “Baby,” Gwendolyn breathes as she arches up into the touch, and she’s about to tell Mildred that she can wait, take a breath, wait until you’re not trembling with the effort of holding yourself together, but Mildred needs. She _needs_ Gwendolyn, in a way she isn’t sure she’s ever felt before, and her fingers dig into Gwendolyn’s skin to stop the protest from leaving her mouth. 

Gwendolyn, in her infinite and shining glory, understands. 

Mildred trembles as she presses her lips to Gwendolyn’s hipbones, over the soft skin of her thighs, down over her knees and the dip between muscles in her calves. She trembles as she makes her way back up, uses her teeth on the sensitive places on Gwendolyn’s thighs. She trembles as her tongue dips between Gwendolyn’s folds, a soft and delighted sigh escaping Gwendolyn’s lips.

Gwendolyn runs her fingers through Mildred’s hair. She tells Mildred how sweet she is, how good she makes Gwendolyn feel, how lucky Gwendolyn is to have her. The words make Mildred shudder, and she wonders how Gwendolyn can form words with her wicked tongue when Mildred is half-buried in her, when she can taste the waves of arousal that pour from Gwendolyn. 

But she licks and sucks and presses her tongue to places that have Gwendolyn pushing against her, pulling the roots of her hair tight as her back arches and she stutters on words of praise. “Baby,” Gwendolyn gasps, and Mildred looks up to a flush all the way down to her breasts, mouth open and eyes squeezed close. 

“Gwendolyn,” Mildred breathes against her, and Gwendolyn’s eyes shoot open. She comes with a choked cry, her throat bobbing, and Mildred frowns. She’d rather looked forward to hearing Gwendolyn’s voice. 

Her arms still tremble as she crawls up Gwendolyn’s body, the feel of skin on skin electrifying and dizzying. Gwendolyn strokes down her sides with a smile, pulls Mildred down against her until Mildred’s full body weight bears down on her. Gwendolyn smiles up at her, and Mildred brushes her now-damp hair from her face, traces her fingers over Gwendolyn’s lips. 

“I want to hear you,” Mildred murmurs, kisses Gwendolyn once, twice, three times. Her hand glides down between them, slides through the mess she’s left behind. Gwendolyn hisses against her. She repeats herself as she presses her finger to Gwendolyn’s entrance. “I want to hear you. Please.” 

“ _Fuck_ —“ 

There are a few gasped breaths, each accompanied by a moaned exhale, as Mildred sets a rhythm. Her hands come up around Mildred, one hand resting at the small of her back and the other buried in her hair. Her hand pulses against Mildred’s scalp, nails scratching lightly. Her breaths come in little pants as she stretches up to Mildred to kiss her. 

“Oh, God, Mildred, yes, right there,” she breathes, and Mildred slides their bodies together, relishing in the way Gwendolyn groans at the brush of skin against skin.

“Gwen,” Mildred breathes back, shifting her body in time with her hand, hovering above Gwendolyn to watch how her face changes. She watches as Gwendolyn’s eyes flutter closed, ease back open to stare up at her with eyes so dark they look like a storm. They shine with an adoration that takes Mildred’s breath away. 

Mildred brings her free hand up to brush along Gwendolyn’s side, brings it up to Gwendolyn’s breast. “Oh,” Gwendolyn shudders, pushes her head back against the pillows. She arches her body up against Mildred and it lifts them both away from the bed. 

“Gwen,” Mildred murmurs again, leans up to mouth at her jaw as the heel of her hand presses against her clit. “Will you come for me?”

“ _Mildred_ —“

Mildred hovers above Gwendolyn, locks their eyes together as Gwendolyn’s hand curls at the small of her back. Her hips thrust down against Mildred’s hand once, and then her whole body shakes, and her mouth parts as she lets out a moan that starts softly. 

It does not stay soft, especially after Mildred rolls the heel of her hand. It rises to a fever pitch, stutters around a gasped breath, and her eyes fall away from Mildred’s as her body stretches taut underneath her. Mildred savors the sound, presses kisses to the extended column of Gwendolyn’s throat. 

Mildred gathers the strength to push herself back down Gwendolyn’s body, clean her own fingers with her tongue as she settles herself back between Gwendolyn’s legs. Gwendolyn props herself up on her elbows. “Darling,” she rasps, and she sounds both thoroughly besotted and extremely exhausted. 

Mildred surveys her work— she’s made a mess of her love, and well, she prefers to leave things neater than she found them. She starts with Gwendolyn’s thighs, earning amused and affectionate hums, but soon she’s back to Gwendolyn’s center, and those hums become moans and pleas. It’s not long before Gwendolyn’s fingers are back in Mildred’s hair, holding her close and pushing her tongue into just the right spots. Gwendolyn is either too far gone or unwilling to give Mildred warning when she comes; Mildred is left breathless when the thighs that have bracketed her in finally release her. But she is committed to cleaning Gwendolyn up, so she dives back in, licks until she’s had her fill and Gwendolyn twitches and tugs her hair with a broken “Baby, come kiss me.” 

Mildred can’t deny her that. It’s a languid kiss, Gwendolyn humming at the taste of herself on Mildred’s tongue. 

It’s a long moment before either of them realizes the radio is still playing. Mildred has no idea how long has passed, and she refuses to lift her head from the pillow of Gwendolyn’s chest, from the safety of her arms and the echo of her heartbeat. She giggles as Gwendolyn hums along to a big band playing out a song neither of them processed. 

_Far away places, with strange sounding names, far away over the sea…_

Gwendolyn presses a kiss to Mildred’s hair. “You spoil me,” she murmurs, shifts her legs so one is propped up. Mildred slides her leg over the one that remains flat against the bed. 

“I should do it more often.”

“I wouldn’t complain.” She laughs when she says it, and Mildred smiles against her, traces lazy circles against Gwendolyn’s skin as she fights back a yawn. 

_Over to China, or maybe Siam, I want to see for myself; those far away places I’ve been reading about in a book that I took from the shelf._

Mildred wonders if Gwendolyn has ever been there. Gwendolyn is a cultured woman, a woman of taste, and it wouldn’t surprise her if she’d gone to some place Mildred had never even heard of. Mildred has only been island hopping, and she can’t count that as travel, really, accounting for the terror and war that loomed over her. 

_I pray for the day I can get underway and look for those castles in Spain!_

“I’d like to go there with you,” Mildred says, and it tumbles out of her mouth, and she’s almost embarrassed that it has. 

“Spain?” Mildred hums a confirmation at Gwendolyn’s question, breathes deeply as Gwendolyn rubs smooth arches over her back. “That does sound like heaven, doesn’t it?”

It wasn’t the answer Mildred expected. 

She sits up, not bothering to cover her chest with the sheets. Which, really, is a mistake, because she’s suddenly awfully cold.

“Mildred?” Gwendolyn asks, concern threaded through her voice. 

It’s foolish, really, because if Gwendolyn doesn’t want to, then Mildred deserves that. She’d left Gwendolyn after promising not to, which had been the second breach of trust Gwendolyn had endured. Really, a casual fling is all she deserves now, and she’d take that, if that’s all Gwendolyn was willing to offer. 

But her heart is beating out of her chest, and her breaths aren’t enough to fill her lungs no matter how hard she tries, and oh God, her hands are so shaky she can barely see them, or maybe her vision is going— 

“Mildred, darling, what just happened?” 

Her eyes snap up to Gwendolyn, sitting in front of her, a hand around Mildred’s forearm. Her brows are drawn together and her lips turned downward in a frown. 

“Do you still want to marry me?”

It tumbles out of Mildred, and she slaps her hand over her mouth. _Stupid, stupid,_ she tells herself. Of course Gwendolyn doesn’t want to marry you. That was a lifetime ago. 

Gwendolyn yanks her head back as if she’s been slapped, and Mildred’s heart sinks. She might be sick. 

“Do I—“ Gwendolyn blinks, and the hand on Mildred’s arm slides to her hand, tangles their fingers together. “Mildred, what— of _course_ I want to marry you, what in the world?” She’s stuttering over her words, like she can’t tell why Mildred is so suddenly upset over all this. 

“I just— I left, and I p-put you in danger, and Spain—“ she cuts herself off with a shuddering inhale, glues her eyes to Gwendolyn’s hand in hers. 

“Jesus.” Her head snaps back up as Gwendolyn thumps back down to the mattress. “I was— that wasn’t a no, Mildred, I—“ she huffs, covering her eyes with her free arm for a moment. “Do you remember what I said when you first suggested coming here?”

Mildred blinks. Her heart rate is slowing down slightly, but she’s still worked up. “Th— that’d be nice?”

Gwendolyn hums, tugs at Mildred’s hand to get her to move closer. “And later, after you had your little…” she drifts off for a moment, and Mildred worries she’s gotten lost, until Gwendolyn taps her nose with her forefinger. “Little speech?” 

It hits Mildred all at once. “That does sound like heaven. Doesn’t it?” 

She’s gotten fairly good at echoing Gwendolyn’s voice. It’s a comfort thing, really, from those moments she’s spent running over every event of the day, playing Gwendolyn’s voice back in her head as Gwendolyn sleeps beside her. 

Gwendolyn smiles at her now and she lets her body sag, thunking her head down to Gwendolyn’s chest with a whimper. God, she’s so stupid. 

Gwendolyn threads her fingers through Mildred’s hair. “I’m sorry, sweetness,” she murmurs, leaning up to press a kiss to the top of Mildred’s head. “I didn’t realise that had been on your mind.” 

Mildred shakes her head against Gwendolyn’s chest. “No, ’s dumb.” 

“It’s not,” Gwendolyn replies, squeezing her close before sitting up slightly to pull the sheets over them. “You’re shivering.” 

“I’m fine,” Mildred protests. She snuggles closer to Gwendolyn anyways, fingers sliding along Gwendolyn’s skin. They’re both quiet for a moment, and Mildred is verging on hating herself for shattering a beautiful day when Gwendolyn speaks again. 

“Have you really been worrying about that?” Mildred doesn’t answer, bites her lip instead. Gwendolyn shifts, slides Mildred off of her slightly so that they’re facing each other. Gwendolyn watches her, searches her face, and her own expression slides towards a melancholy that hurts Mildred’s chest. “Mildred,” she breathes, “I— I am truly sorry.” 

Her hand comes up to frame Mildred’s face, uses two fingers to push Mildred’s hair behind her ears. Mildred starts to say no, she ought to be the one who’s sorry, and she is, but Gwendolyn shushes her. “I am. I love you, Mildred, and I want to marry you. Just as much as I did when I asked you the first time, maybe even more.” 

Mildred lets her lip go, turns her head and presses a kiss to Gwendolyn’s palm. “Why?”

“Why?” Gwendolyn repeats, and Mildred nods. “Why do I want to marry you?”

“I hurt you,” Mildred utters. “I— I hurt you.”

“Yes,” Gwendolyn admits, her voice vaguely hesitant. “Yes, you did. But it’s—“ She cuts herself off with a sigh, and her frown deepens a little as she strokes over Mildred’s brow. “I never… when you left, that hurt, yes, but I only ever wanted you back. I only ever wanted…” 

Mildred watches her swallow. She watches her eyes close as she takes a deep, shaking breath. And then Gwendolyn speaks, and her voice is so shaky and broken that Mildred feels her heart cracking open. “I just wanted to keep you _safe_. And I couldn’t understand— I couldn’t understand _why_.” 

And Mildred knows she’s not talking about what was in the note. The note was explanatory, yes, but it wasn’t everything. She reaches out, brushes her fingers against Gwendolyn’s collarbones. She can barely make her voice work, push enough air through her throat to to make any noise at all. “I was the reason you were unsafe,” she starts to say, but Gwendolyn shakes her head and oh, God, Gwendolyn is crying. Mildred has made her cry, again, and this is awful. 

“You taught me to shoot a gun, Mildred. You are the safest place I’ve ever known.” 

Her smile is tight against her tears, and Mildred had thought her heart was shattered before. Now, her heart breaks further, and is she ever going to be able to make this up to Gwendolyn? Is she ever going to be able to promise enough? 

And Gwendolyn’s face is still echoing her question: Why? 

“I thought—“ Mildred bites her lip until Gwendolyn thumbs it loose from her teeth. She takes a few deep breaths, fixes her eyes to the spot where Gwendolyn’s hair meets her forehead. “I thought I knew everything. Everything that mattered, logically. I thought… I thought love wasn’t enough, wouldn’t be enough to keep us— but—“ her throat closes, and Gwendolyn makes a sympathetic little noise. 

“But it has to be enough,” she eventually hisses. “It has to. Because I cannot live without you.” 

There are still tears spilling from Gwendolyn’s eyes, but she smiles. “Then don’t,” she says. 

As if it’s that simple. 

Mildred wishes it were. She’s starting to believe that maybe, it could be. 

But she still needs to make this up to Gwendolyn. She has to heal some of her wounds, because she has to heal some of her own. “How— how can I— what do I do?” she nearly whimpers. 

Gwendolyn touches their foreheads together, shudders out a breath. When she speaks, it’s so quiet Mildred barely hears it. “Love me,” she breathes, “I want you to love me, for all of my days.”

Mildred pulls herself closer, until their bodies are pressed together like they had been, until she’s so tightly moulded to Gwendolyn that she fears pulling away might hurt them. “Like this?”

“Like this,” Gwendolyn murmurs, tilts Mildred’s chin up with a single finger, kisses her gently and slowly until they’re both out of breath, and then just a little longer. 

Mildred suggests, one night, as a present for her appears under the tree and Gwendolyn swats her hand away, that they try a Midnight Mass. Gwendolyn turns to her, a surprised and mildly confused look on her face. “In Spanish?” 

“Why not?” Mildred asks. “I don’t know any of the songs or cues anyways. I’m sure the mass itself can’t be that different.”

“I can teach you the songs,” Gwendolyn murmurs as she takes Mildred’s hand. She’s still kneeling, with Mildred standing above her, and Mildred has to stop herself from biting her lip. “We can have our own little celebration here.” 

“Or we could go,” Mildred returns. “Really. I— we might even invite Violet and Elina?”

Fernanda, by now, had already returned home again, back to Morelos. _My family do not know everything,_ she had said, _but they are still my family._

Gwendolyn blinks at Mildred, confusion still clouding her expression. “What about…?” 

Gwendolyn gets the paper every day, whether they’re in their little apartment or out at the restaurant, when Fernanda drops by before work. Gwendolyn knows as well as she does when Mildred says, “There hasn’t been any news. Let’s go to Midnight Mass.” 

She leans down, takes Gwendolyn’s face in her hands, presses a kiss to her forehead. “It’ll be… fun.” 

_It’ll make you happy._

Gwendolyn agrees. She makes Mildred open one of her presents early for it, even though Mildred has gotten so used to being swatted away that she balks at the suggestion. She refuses to do so until Gwendolyn selects a present of her own. 

Gwendolyn is mildly confused by the present she chooses, pulling what looks to be some sort of leather harness out of a carefully-wrapped box. She furrows her brow, a small smile on her face, and tilts her head at Mildred. 

Mildred turns bright red. “Oh,” Gwendolyn laughs. “Oh, darling.” 

Of course this is the one Gwendolyn decided to open before they went to the house of the Lord. At least they’re opening these presents before Violet and Elina arrive. Mildred hides her face as Gwendolyn runs her fingers over the leather of the straps, humming in approval. She roots around in the box a little more, pulls out a rubbery phallus that’s been dyed a shade of red that would be hard to disguise. 

Redder than Mildred’s face, but not by much. 

“Mildred, darling,” Gwendolyn drawls, a far-too-smug smile spread across her face. “How ever did you manage this?” 

“I— had some help,” she practically squeaks. “Fernanda knows— a— a person, and she went with me?” 

Gwendolyn moves closer, harness and addition thankfully left behind on the bed, and wraps an arm around Mildred to tug her close. “Fernanda? Should I be jealous?”

“No,” Mildred squeaks. Gwendolyn tucks her face in against Mildred’s neck and simply breathes there until a little tremor goes through Mildred. Only then does she press her lips to Mildred’s skin, and Mildred is grateful Gwendolyn is holding her upright, because her knees give out before Gwendolyn even uses her tongue or teeth. All she can do is cling to Gwendolyn’s arms. 

With a gentle nip, Gwendolyn pulls back, and Mildred whines. It ears her another chuckle, a tug upright, and a pat on the ass, with a “Go get changed.”

Mildred lets out a confused whine until Gwendolyn deposits a flat, somewhat thin box in her arms and pushes her gently towards the bathroom. 

Mildred sets the box on the lid of the toilet, kneels before it after she closes the door. Not that she needs the privacy from Gwendolyn, especially not now, but Gwendolyn hadn’t followed her in. Maybe she wanted to give Mildred privacy for this. 

The thought makes her heart thrum. 

She slides her thumb under the crease in the wrapping paper where Gwendolyn has taped it down. She hardly wrinkles the paper— it can be saved, and even though she tells herself they don’t need to, and that Gwendolyn would never be upset with her for not being so delicate with the wrapping, she can’t make herself be rough. Once the paper slides off, she finds a box that rests closed. 

She bites her lip for a moment before remembering that Gwendolyn hates when she does that. Not hates, perhaps, but wishes she wouldn’t. 

She opens the box. 

Before her sits a pair of underthings, silken and smooth, on top of a velvety green swath of fabric. Mildred gasps, her left hand covering her mouth. She hears movement outside the bathroom stop, a careful step taken closer, and then steps fading away. 

She’s amazed. Gwendolyn has bought her a strapless bra that smooths down into a nearly-boneless corset, silky white lace that will provide little cover for her skin, if any at all. There’s a matching pair of high-waisted panties that offer a little more modesty, a single layer of silk under the soft, swirling patterns of lace. They look smooth to the touch, like water, and she’s delighted to find they feel just that way. 

“Alright in there?” Gwendolyn calls. She’s going for casual, Mildred knows, but there’s a tinge of worry. 

“Very much so,” Mildred replies, her voice a little shaky. She stands, gives the undergarments one last stroke and shudders at the rich feeling of the fabric. Or lack of it. 

Then she rids herself of the dress she had been wearing, folds it over her arm and then gently rests it on the counter. The rich red fabric seems to sag in comparison to the silk and velvet she’s been offered. 

She slips out of the brassiere and panties that she currently has on, folds them neatly on top of her dress. She pulls on the silk panties first, shudders at how smooth the silk feels against her skin. 

_I’ll buy you all the silk in the world,_ she remembers. She remembers Gwendolyn’s voice when she said it, dark and husky, pushing her on, chasing her towards her own high. 

She pulls the corset on next, snapping it closed around the back. She’s pleased with the coolness of the fabric, with the way it bends as she attaches the straps at the bottom to her stockings. Then she smooths her hands over her own body, looks to herself in the mirror. 

The cups of the brassiere are lined, but the lace over them is smooth as everything else. It almost seems as if the ghost of flowering vines have wound their way over her breasts, and she finds it fascinating, the way the lace pattern accentuates the curves of her body. The corset does very little to shape, if anything, but with the pattern of the bodice she feels as if she looks more a woman than she ever has. 

And Gwendolyn bought her this. Gwendolyn wanted her to feel this way. Gwendolyn had measured her, and found her worthy. 

She shudders with the thought, but she smiles. 

She returns to the box. The forest green velvet is enticing, and soft, and bends easily beneath her fingers. She tucks her fingers daintily under one of the folds, careful not to ruin the thing, and lifts it up. 

She has half a mind to gasp again, but all that happens is her jaw dropping open. 

It’s an off-the-shoulder sleeve, short and suited for the mildness of a Mexican winter. There’s ruching around the collar, with a bow connecting the gently sloping ends of the neckline. It’s pinched in at the waist, and the skirt flares without the need for a petticoat, and if Mildred is correct, it will hit just below her knees. 

Precisely where she likes her dresses to hit. 

The decadence of the velvet, of the whole dress being covered in it, and as she soon discovers, the decadence of the silk lining, is almost too much. But this is something Gwendolyn found. This is something Gwendolyn believes she deserves. And she cannot believe Gwendolyn would lie to her about something like this. 

So she slips the dress on. It slides against her skin, the fabric so smooth it barely feels like fabric at all, and she closes her eyes against the feeling. It’s too much to bear with her eyes open. 

She runs her hands over her stomach, smoothing the fabric down after she zips up the back. The velvet is so soft— softer than the fur of the horses she and Gwendolyn had visited during a little trip out to a farm. A Christmastime girl’s night, Elina had sarcastically called it. But the velvet under her skin, the silk over it, makes her feel better than she had that night, warmer, more secure. 

And Gwendolyn isn’t even touching her yet. 

She opens her eyes and regards herself. She has to admit the green does wonders for her hair— makes it redder, makes the contrast between hair and skin simultaneously more striking and more tolerable. Her eyes seem to tilt towards gold, and she’s not sure if it’s the hair, the dress, or the love in her heart that does it. 

“Mildred?” she hears again, and she takes a deep breath, smooths over her skirt, shivering at the feeling, and emerges from their little bathroom.

Gwendolyn is standing with her back to Mildred, bent over the bed slightly with a jacket draped over her shoulder. She’s donned a black skirt and heels, as well as a cream-colored blouse with a high neckline. The jacket draped over her shoulder is a golden-crossed red, the same one she’d worn to dinner the first time Mildred admitted she felt something for Gwendolyn. Her hair is curled neatly into a bun, a clip nestled in the center— a silver, leafy thing, one that Mildred had purchased for her the prior Christmas. 

Mildred almost loses her nerve, her breath, but she utters, “What do you think?” 

Gwendolyn turns, and while her jaw doesn’t completely drop open, it does drop, and her lips part slightly. She stares, eyes wide, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. She stares long enough that Mildred shifts on her feet slightly. 

Gwendolyn shakes her head, blinks a few times, and manages a “Wow.”

“Do you like it?” Mildred asks. She’s fishing, just a little bit, but Gwendolyn smiles, a wide and delighted smile. 

“Give me a spin and I’ll see.” 

Mildred giggles slightly, spins in a circle slowly. “Mmm. It is very nice. Faster?” Mildred does, and the skirt flares out, and Gwendolyn sighs happily. “Yes, I think this will do very nicely.” 

Mildred smiles, presses her lips together before taking a step forward. Gwendolyn abandons her jacket and wraps an arm around her. “Do you like it?” Gwendolyn asks softly. As if she might doubt it. 

“It’s wonderful,” Mildred breathes back. “I feel like a princess.” Her hands clasp at Gwendolyn’s shoulders, tighten ever so slightly at Gwendolyn’s grin. 

“No, baby, you’re my queen.” 

Mass is confusing for Mildred. Elina seems nonplussed, and Violet and Gwendolyn seem to be calmed by the whole process, leave the church with an aura of two women who are settled in their bodies. It’s an odd look for Violet, who is normally so bouncy she ricochets off walls that aren’t there. 

Elina and Violet share cocktails with Mildred and Gwendolyn, though Gwendolyn only allows Mildred to serve them all once before tugging her down to Gwendolyn’s lap. Mildred pointedly ignores Gwendolyn toeing off Mildred’s shoes after she removes her own, peeling off Mildred’s gloves, unclasping Mildred’s single strand of pearls and placing a kiss on the back of her neck. 

She tries to ignore the kiss, at least, but it does make her shudder. Elina laughs, chides Gwendolyn for her forwardness in front of polite company. Gwendolyn raises an eyebrow in response and Elina laughs more. 

When Violet and Elina leave, it’s nearly three in the morning. Mildred is waning slightly, but Gwendolyn seems as awake as she did six hours ago. Gwendolyn leaves her in the chair by the fireplace, which is crackling like Elina’s laughter. Violet kisses her cheeks. “Mija,” she says fondly, and Mildred looks up to her, “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas, Violet,” she half-mumbles. Violet grins, then joins her wife at the door, squeezes Gwendolyn’s hand. 

Gwendolyn returns to Mildred, looms over her for a moment. “Are you warm enough?” she asks. 

“Almost,” Mildred answers sleepily, reaches up. Gwendolyn takes her hands, wraps them around her own shoulders, and pulls her to standing. She stumbles slightly, toes still stuck in her heels, but stepping out of them results in her being pushed flush against Gwendolyn’s body. 

Gwendolyn’s arms wrap around her immediately, and she looks up with a sleepy grin. “Much better. Though I am still a little cold.” 

Gwendolyn cocks an eyebrow, but she can’t resist smiling back at Mildred. “You flirt,” she teases. Before Mildred can respond, Gwendolyn has kissed her, and she finds herself melting into her love’s arms. 

Gwendolyn lifts her immediately, and Mildred is glad the corset is so flexible— with her legs wrapped around Gwendolyn’s hips as they are, anything more restricting would be downright painful. But Gwendolyn lifts her, tangles them up together, strides towards the bed as calmly as she strode out of the church. 

Mildred bounces a little when she’s set down, but it affords her the opportunity to watch Gwendolyn strip. Blouse first, over her her head and tossed to the side. The skirt goes next, and Mildred thinks she’ll stop there, let her take off the brassiere and touch her skin. 

But Gwendolyn doesn’t stop, pushes down her own panties and undoes her own bra with a sort of swiftness Mildred isn’t particularly used to. She starts to sit up, but Gwendolyn pins her down with a look. She swallows, mouth suddenly just a little dry, all traces of sleep gone from her mind. 

Gwendolyn slides her bare skin over the softness of the velvet surrounding Mildred. Her eyes flutter slightly, though they stay open, and Mildred is transfixed. She doesn’t know what’s gotten into her when she rasps, “Does that feel good?” 

Gwendolyn’s eyes slide shut a moment. “ _You_ feel good, darling,” Gwendolyn utters in response. Her hands slip beneath the velvet, slide between layers of silk, glide the same way she herself glides through the ocean. Mildred shifts her thighs together, heat building low within her. 

The pressure of Gwendolyn on top of her is delicious, but she needs more. “Gwen.”

Gwendolyn, in her infinite and shining glory, understands. She surges up, presses their lips together, nips gently at Mildred’s lip as she opens her mouth in a slight gasp. Mildred clutches at Gwendolyn’s sides as their tongues brush, as Gwendolyn presses her hips down against Mildred’s. She rocks their bodies together, her hands skating up over the lace of Mildred’s corseted bra. 

Mildred whimpers, and Gwendolyn exhales a short little laugh. “Does that feel good, baby?” she asks, a teasing echo of Mildred’s words. 

“More,” Mildred begs. “Need— oh!” She shudders as Gwendolyn’s fingers sweep back down, trace the spots where her hips meet her thighs. “Get this off of me.” 

Gwendolyn mouths at her jaw, tugs her hips lower before sliding her hands away from Mildred’s skin. Mildred whimpers with it. “Sit up,” she demands, and Mildred is only too happy to comply. She runs her hands over Gwendolyn’s back, stroking one after the other as Gwendolyn unzips her dress. 

Gwendolyn is able to push her back down so she can shimmy the velvet garment off of Mildred, but she lets out a noise of surprise when Mildred pushes up against her again, keeps pushing, until Gwendolyn is on her back and Mildred hovers above her. She tries to scoot herself lower, but Mildred stills her with a hand to the center of her chest. “Let me,” she rasps, and Gwendolyn meets her gaze. 

Mildred’s pupils are blown wide, her eyes nearly black with it, and yet those sparks of gold remain. Gwendolyn lets air rush into her lungs, reaches up and tucks a stray strand of hair behind Mildred’s ear. Mildred smiles, a wicked and beautiful thing. 

Mildred leans down, captures Gwendolyn’s lips, kisses her insistently as the hand at the center of her chest drifts to the right. Her fingers brush over Gwendolyn’s left breast as her mouth slides to Gwendolyn’s jaw, and Gwendolyn lets out a breathy moan. “Mildred—“ 

Mildred hums a question against her skin, and Gwendolyn grips at the lace that covers her hips. “Mildred,” she breathes again, and Mildred slides lower, dragging Gwendolyn’s fingertips along her new lingerie. 

Mildred mouths at her neck, stopping to suck gently in a few spots she knows will have Gwendolyn squirming. And they do; Gwendolyn wiggles her hips in search of any friction, gasps when Mildred’s thigh lands between her legs and pushes up roughly. Mildred switches her weight onto her right arm, brushes her fingers over Gwendolyn’s left breast, chuckles slightly against her collarbone as Gwendolyn arches up into the touch. 

Just when the friction is starting to be enough, just when Gwendolyn is starting to pant and reach for the softer parts of Mildred, Mildred pulls back, removes her hands from Gwendolyn’s body, stills her thigh. She fixes Gwendolyn with a curious look and giggles at Gwendolyn’s frustration. 

“Why white?” Mildred asks. 

Gwendolyn lets her head thunk back to the bed. “Mildred, baby, I am _begging_ you.”

“Was it for the wedding?” 

Gwendolyn’s head jerks back up. Mildred is still half-straddling her, a teasing smirk decorating her reddened lips. Gwendolyn groans again. “How very economical of you,” Mildred teases. Gwendolyn grits her jaw. “To suggest re-using lingerie for such a special night.”

“I have every intention,” Gwendolyn growls, hands at Mildred’s hips, tugging her up from her spot to up and over Gwendolyn’s waist, “of ruining these tonight, if you would just let me—“ 

Mildred wiggles free, but she arches her back, and the sight of her ass wiggling in the air has Gwendolyn groaning again. She tries to cling to Mildred, but her fingers slip against the lace, and Mildred escapes her. 

Until her mouth finds Gwendolyn’s left breast, and her tongue is warm against Gwendolyn’s skin, and Gwendolyn buries her fingers in Mildred’s hair with a gasped “Fuck!” A jolt shoots through her as Mildred nips, a teasing punishment for the curse. Gwendolyn manages to work one hand free, slide it down Mildred’s shoulders, try to press Mildred’s body closer to her own. 

Mildred does not relent. She sweeps her hands down Gwendolyn’s sides, digs her fingers into the soft spots at Gwendolyn’s hips, moves her lips to Gwendolyn’s right breast. She braces herself with one hand next to Gwendolyn’s shoulder, and the other pets down her thigh. Gwendolyn pushes her hips up and off the bed, whines slightly, jerks at another teasing nip. 

But then Mildred’s fingers dip between her folds, and Mildred lets out a soft cooing noise at the wetness she finds there. Her mouth has worked it’s way back to Gwendolyn’s neck. “Baby,” Gwendolyn practically wheezes, gripping at her bare shoulder, fingers scrabbling at her waist. 

“Shh, my love,” Mildred rasps against her skin, flattens her fingers against the length of Gwendolyn’s center and presses lightly. Gwendolyn whines and Mildred hums in sympathy. Gwendolyn’s grip on her tightens, fingernails digging into the lace of Mildred’s corset, as Mildred dips one finger into her, moves torturously slowly. Gwen’s hips tilt towards her and she sighs. 

“Oh, Gwen,” she says, affection and admiration and heat tangling in her voice, “so ready for me. So beautiful.” 

“Always,” Gwendolyn chokes out, gasps when the heel of Mildred’s hand presses up against her clit. “Oh, fuck—“ 

She cuts off with a groan as Mildred bites at her neck, then uses her tongue to soothe the spot. But Mildred picks up speed, and Gwendolyn is caught in the heat of it, her hand cascading down Mildred’s left arm until she lands at her wrist. She wraps her fingers around Mildred there, holds tight, tries so very hard to hang on as Mildred pushes her closer and closer to the edge. 

It’s when Mildred slips a second finger inside Gwendolyn and curls her fingers up that Gwendolyn stops being able to breathe, stops being able to see anything but Mildred, in the white silk and lace she’d worn all night, stops being able to think anything but _Mildred, Mildred, Mildred—_

“Yes,” Mildred breathes against her skin, thrusts into that particular spot that makes Gwendolyn see stars. “Yes, Gwendolyn.”

And then she bites down on Gwendolyn’s neck, and Gwendolyn’s body seizes up as she gasps air in, as the bright spots in her vision take over, as she clenches and shakes through waves of pleasure that leave her breathless and boneless and the best kind of weak. 

When her body reminds her that she’s human again, Gwendolyn finds Mildred still attached to her neck, but pressing gentle little kisses to the already-tender bruise she’s left behind. She’d not noticed Mildred removing her hand, but both hands now caress down Gwendolyn’s sides. 

Gwendolyn manages to work a hand into Mildred’s hair. She tugs lightly, and Mildred pulls back immediately, hovering over her. She doesn’t speak, but offers a small smile. Gwendolyn tugs her closer and she lets her weight rest on Gwendolyn, brings her fingers to Gwendolyn’s neck to caress the mark left behind. 

“Darling,” Gwendolyn starts, her voice crackly— had she been crying out?— and clears her throat lightly. “Oh, Mildred, I love you.”

The smile that blooms across Mildred’s face reminds Gwendolyn of a rose opening in the sun. She kisses Gwendolyn and her lips are petal-soft. Her voice nearly trembles with the strength of her feelings when she says, “I love you, Gwendolyn.” 

Gwendolyn cannot move— not in the way she would like, she knows she wouldn’t be able to support herself on arms that are still shaky as is. But she brings her legs up, uses what little strength is left there to push Mildred further over her. 

Mildred bounces slightly, yelps as she comes to rest straddling Gwendolyn’s torso. At this angle, it’s easy to undo the clasps keeping Mildred’s stockings up, guide her into pulling those off. “Good girl,” she breathes as she presses gentle kisses to Mildred’s chest, “that’s my good girl. These off too, please.” 

Mildred shudders, slips her panties down as far as she can without moving away from Gwendolyn. But she does have to eventually, and she’s quick to nearly hurl the silk off of her, come back to straddling Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn wraps her hands around Mildred’s thighs and tugs her forward again, leaving her centered over Gwendolyn’s chest. 

She smells divine. 

“Gwendolyn?”

Gwendolyn looks up to Mildred’s face, peering down at her with those wide eyes, her bottom lip between her teeth. “Can you feel me?” Gwendolyn asks, dragging her hands down Mildred’s sides, over the lace and silk she still has on. Mildred nods, only mildly frantic, and Gwendolyn tugs gently at the now-loose straps that hang from the corset. “Good.”

She spends a few moments just running her fingers over Mildred’s thighs, chuckling slightly as her hips jerk forward when Gwendolyn’s fingers skate over the spot where her hips meet her thighs. 

“Hold on to the headboard,” Gwendolyn says, and Mildred starts a little. 

“What?” she asks. Her hands find Gwendolyn’s on her thighs. 

“Hold on,” Gwendolyn repeats, lifting both their hands as far as she can, “to the headboard.” 

Mildred does as she asks this time, though she makes a confused little sound. Gwendolyn soothes her with more touches, with gentle tugs that have her moving closer and closer to where Gwendolyn wants her. 

“What are you…?” 

She doesn’t sound afraid, which is good. She just sounds curious. Gwendolyn leans up and presses a kiss to her left hip, just over the cluster of scars that lay there. “It’ll be just like every other time I’ve had my mouth on you,” she says, tries to keep her voice calm rather than how desperate she actually feels. “You’ll just be above me this time.” 

“What if I hurt you?” Mildred asks, letting go of the headboard with one hand, reaching down at a vaguely awkward angle to touch Gwendolyn’s face. Gwendolyn smiles, closes her eyes a moment when Mildred’s fingers brush her hair. 

“That’s what you have the headboard for.” Mildred frowns, and Gwendolyn relents, murmuring, “you won’t, darling. I’ll keep you exactly where I need you.” 

Mildred bites her lip again until she spots the look Gwendolyn is giving her. “Okay,” she murmurs back, brings both hands back to the headboard, keeps her eyes on Gwendolyn’s face. 

She isn’t able to do that for very long— now that Gwendolyn has permission, all she wants is to taste Mildred, and she quickly guides her thighs over her own shoulders. Mildred jerks at the feeling of Gwendolyn’s breath against her center. Gwendolyn wraps her fingers around the backs of Mildred’s thighs, steadies herself as best she can before she dives in. 

And God, when she does— 

Mildred lets out a moan immediately, her hips rolling down, pushing Gwendolyn’s tongue further between her folds. Gwendolyn lets out one of her own at the taste of Mildred, tightens her fingers against Mildred’s flesh, her eyes falling closed. One of Mildred’s hands comes down again, shaky fingers threading through her hair as she lets out soft pants. 

Gwendolyn looks up as she sweeps her tongue through Mildred, finds her arched over Gwendolyn, forehead against the forearm that’s flat against the headboard. Mildred’s hand tightens in her hair and she lets out a soft little whimper. 

Mildred looks absolutely perfect, slotted in between the swirling wings of the headboard. They’re going to have to revisit this position. 

“Gwen,” Mildred gasps, “Gwen, please, please, pl—“ 

She cuts off with another moan as Gwendolyn sucks gently at her clit, her hips stuttering against Gwendolyn’s mouth. Gwendolyn thinks it might be possible for Mildred to come just like this. The hand in her hair twitches, releases when she whimpers, tightens again when Gwendolyn uses her tongue on her clit. “Oh, God,” Gwendolyn hears above her, just a breath, and she hums sympathetically. 

“Fuck,” Mildred curses, her hips shooting forward as she slams her open palm flat against the headboard. It’s cruel of her, but Gwendolyn hums in question at that, and she’s rewarded with another buck forward, another slap to the headboard, and a raspy, “God _dammit_ , Gwendolyn, oh, shit!” 

Gwendolyn chuckles. Yes, this will have to be revisited. 

She wants Mildred to let go completely, so she slips a hand between Mildred’s thighs, traces softly just below her own chin. Mildred’s hips tilt back towards those fingers and she hums again. The vibrations make Mildred shudder, make her hips roll down, and Gwendolyn’s fingers brush against her entrance. 

“I— oh—“

Gwendolyn lets her head fall away for just a moment, breathing deeply before she says, “Both hands, sweetheart. Let it all go.” 

Mildred looks down at her, flexes her fingers in Gwendolyn’s hair a few times before sliding them away. Her face is flushed, and it spreads all the way down to her chest, leaving her with a rather rosy complexion. 

She is, as always, absolutely stunning. 

“That’s my good girl,” she murmurs, and Mildred shudders, hips lowering instinctively. Her breath hitches as she sinks down onto Gwendolyn’s fingers, and her eyes close, and Gwendolyn savors the sight for just a moment more. 

Then she pulls Mildred’s hips down to her mouth, suckles at her thigh for a moment before returning to the task at hand. She licks and sucks and presses her tongue flat against Mildred’s clit as she thrusts, and Mildred’s hips rock back and forth over her mouth. She lets out desperate little sounds and Gwendolyn hums in agreement. She digs her nails into the headboard, hard enough that Gwendolyn hears it and lets out an admonishing sound against her. When she hears the side of a fist come down against the wood instead, she hums happily, sucks Mildred’s clit into her mouth, and curls her fingers. 

“Oh, God, oh, Gwen,” Mildred groans, her hips twitching. She doesn’t seem to know how to move, just that her body wants to, needs to. She moves in every direction, and Gwendolyn chases her, and her cries turn wordless as Gwendolyn thrusts and curls again, and again, and again, unconcerned with how her hand will likely cramp later. 

It’s worth it, to hear Mildred like this. 

“Gwen, oh— I’m— you ha— _Gwen_ —“ 

“Mhmm?” 

Mildred’s thighs shut around her head as she slams her fist down on the headboard, her weight bearing down on Gwendolyn as she shakes through her orgasm. Gwendolyn laps her up as best as she can, slides her hand free and replaces her fingers with her tongue, humming in appreciation at the taste of Mildred everywhere. 

_Now swallow._

Mildred gasps eventually, her lungs emptied from crying out, and lifts her hips away desperately. Gwendolyn presses kisses to her thighs, cleaning up what little wetness she’d let escape, the little tracks she’d left behind with the fingers she’d had buried in Mildred. She cleans those fingers, too, as she slides herself out from under Mildred. 

Mildred is still clinging to the headboard, trembling, heaving in breaths. Gwendolyn places a gentle kiss to her shoulder, undoes the corset, peels the offending fabric from her body before bringing her hands to Mildred’s hips. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs, pulling Mildred’s back against her front, “let go now, sweetness.”

Mildred does, sagging back against her. She pulls the two of them back down to the mattress, drapes Mildred half atop herself, presses a kiss to her forehead as she pulls the sheets over them both. 

“God,” Mildred utters, voice crackling. 

“You keep confusing the two of us,” Gwendolyn teases. Mildred pushes at her shoulder lightly. 

Then there’s a hand at Gwendolyn’s cheek, and Gwendolyn turns her head to find Mildred looking up at her with shining eyes, and there’s hardly any breath in her chest all of a sudden. “I love you,” Mildred murmurs, eyes flicking to Gwendolyn’s lips for just a moment. 

“I love you,” Gwendolyn answers, and then because she can do nothing else, she kisses Mildred. Mildred hums happily with it, pushes herself closer somehow, as if she thinks if she does that enough they’ll become one body. 

Gwendolyn wishes that could happen. 

Mildred giggles into the kiss, and Gwendolyn breaks it, looking to her with a bemused smile and a furrowed brow. “Merry Christmas,” Mildred giggles, little dimples appearing on her cheeks. 

Gwendolyn guffaws, brings her hand to Mildred’s cheek and sweeps her thumb across it. “Merry Christmas indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How y'all doin? We okay? Do you love me again yet? Scream it out in the comments and I'll see you again soon <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas!
> 
> That's it. Pure fluff. Christmas fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Fluff, Smut, Christmas
> 
> Heeeeeyyy folks.
> 
> So I legitimately meant to have this chapter out last Sunday. Obviously, that didn't happen-- woke up last Sunday unable to eat, and have been struggling with a chronic condition I have ever since. I finally felt well enough last night to start writing, and almost six hours of semi-daylight later, here we are! 
> 
> I predict there will be three more chapters after this one. There may be four, but we'll see. I think I can fit everything into three.
> 
> Also, there's copious use of a strap-on here. I will not feel bad if you need to skip that. Okay? Just take care of yourselves, babes, and hopefully I'll be back soon. <3 Enjoy!! <3

Christmas morning dawns far before Mildred or Gwendolyn wake. Gwendolyn wakes around what she assumes is mid-morning, lifts her head to look around them. 

The fire, by some miracle, is still going. The ornaments on the tree twinkle in the colored rays of sun that filter through the stained glass of their alcove. There can’t possibly be snow outside— even if she disregards the fire, it’s too warm in their apartment. 

But there’s no mistaking it, it’s Christmas. 

Mildred snuffles against Gwendolyn in her sleep, and Gwendolyn smiles, running her hands down Mildred’s bare back. “Merry Christmas, my love,” she breathes, not quite loud enough to wake Mildred. The younger woman shifts against her slightly, arches back into her hands, and Gwendolyn noses at her face gently. 

Mildred lets out a sigh and turns into her nuzzling, brushing their lips together in her sleep. Gwendolyn takes that opportunity, moulds their lips together, kisses Mildred again and again until she’s blinking awake and mumbling nonsense against Gwendolyn. 

“Good morning,” Gwendolyn says, repeats herself, “Merry Christmas, my love.” 

Mildred blinks one more time, brow furrowed, before the words process and she lets a smile spread across her face. “Merry Christmas.” 

The she pulls Gwendolyn to her, with more strength than Gwendolyn had expected, wiggles until she’s happy with Gwendolyn’s weight bearing down on her. She wraps her arms around Gwendolyn’s neck, hums against her lips, lifts her legs until they’re crossed over Gwendolyn’s hips. 

Gwendolyn grins into the kiss, runs her hands along Mildred’s sides. Mildred arches up into her and lets out a faint sigh. Her mouth parts, and Gwendolyn takes advantage of that, sucks gently at her lip before pushing in against her. 

There’s a knock on the door, and they both jump, and the panting isn’t just from the morning exercise. 

“¡Feliz Navidad! Compliments of management, Missus Briggs, Missus Ratched,” a familiar voice calls. Gwendolyn lets her weight go, feels Mildred’s hands at her shoulders loosen slightly. 

“Gracias,” Gwendolyn calls, her voice returning to normal first. Footsteps move away and she goes to push herself up, but Mildred clings to her. 

“Not yet,” she pleads. “Just… just a moment.” 

Gwendolyn smiles, lowers herself again. “Of course, darling. But we shouldn’t leave whatever it is out there too long.” Mildred whines against her, shoves her face into Gwendolyn’s neck. Gwendolyn starts to say they really shouldn’t, and besides, it’s Christmas— but Mildred bites down gently on the skin there and she hisses in a breath instead. 

“Mildred,” she scolds, swatting at her hip lightly, and Mildred wiggles underneath her. “You are incorrigible.” 

“Mmmm.” Mildred breathes in against her deeply. “You like it.”

“Yes,” Gwendolyn sighs, “yes, I do.” But she pushes herself up anyways, pulls herself out of bed, stretches in the mid-morning sun. Mildred watches hungrily. 

Gwendolyn grabs a robe— she’s not sure who’s it is, and she’s seen Mildred use it, but that means very little— and wraps it around herself before going to the door. She lets out a delighted gasp, and Mildred scrambles to cover herself in the sheets before and move towards the mantle before she recognizes the emotion. Her shoulders fall, and she sits back on the bed with a _thump_ as Gwendolyn swings back inside, shuts the doors behind her. 

“Look!” She holds out a potted plant, bright red and green, leaves shaking slightly with the way Gwendolyn moves. “They gifted us a poinsettia!” 

Mildred can’t help the pout that comes to her lips, the narrowing of her eyes. They only worsen when Gwendolyn laughs at her. “Oh, darling,” she chuckles, moves the offending flower to one arm and a corresponding hip, cups Mildred’s cheek in her other hand. “Did I startle you?”

“Yes,” Mildred whines, “and I think I’m owed an apology for that.”

Gwendolyn snorts, pats her cheek. “Well, let me set this out on our patio.” She’s already turning, moving away from Mildred, who simply pouts more and pulls the sheets further around her body. “Then I’ll come make it up to you.” 

When Gwendolyn returns from setting the poinsettia outside, on the little table they sometimes sit by, she laughs again. Mildred is still pouting, arms crossed over the sheets that cover her chest. Gwendolyn keeps laughing, even as Mildred whines at her for it, even as she climbs up the bed and kisses the pout from Mildred’s lips. Mildred tugs gently at the tie holding Gwendolyn’s robe closed, slips her hands under the fabric. “Sweetness, none of that,” Gwendolyn murmurs as she moves to Mildred’s neck, and Mildred shudders, scrapes barely-there nails against Gwendolyn’s side. 

She skates her palms up and over Gwendolyn’s chest, pulls her mouth back to her own, kisses her soundly before she speaks again. “Merry Christmas, Gwendolyn.” The smile in her eyes is a true one, and it starts to turn just a bit wicked. “Did you hear him knock on any other doors?”

Gwendolyn furrows her brow for a moment. Then she bites back a chuckle, choosing to mouth at Mildred’s jaw instead. “Come to think of it, no, no I did not.”

Mildred hums again, hikes a leg up over Gwendolyn’s hip. “Someone got us an extra present, then.”

Gwendolyn pulls her head back, looks up at the ceiling. She tugs Mildred to laying down beneath her, bending her thigh back until it’s nearly flush against her body, pretends not to react to the surprised yelp. “Thank you!” 

Mildred finds herself giggling as she reaches for Gwendolyn, pulls her back in for a kiss and reaches for her hips. 

It’s not long before those giggles turn to moans, before Gwendolyn has her calling out her name, has her shaking apart and gasping for air. She practically sings with it, and Gwendolyn seems to relish in those noises. 

Mildred finds her eager and willing when she slides a hand between Gwendolyn’s legs, murmurs in her ear. Gwendolyn shudders and grinds down against Mildred’s fingers, whines when Mildred lets her fingers skate past where Gwendolyn really wants them. Mildred holds her hand still, pulls Gwendolyn closer by the shoulders— she murmurs against Gwendolyn’s ear, little questions and praises as Gwendolyn whimpers and rolls her hips against Mildred’s hand. 

When she comes, she falls to her forearms, her face finding it’s home in Mildred’s neck as she shudders and gasps. Mildred holds her, breathes in the faint remnants of the scent of Gwendolyn’s shampoo in her hair. She feels a wave of tingling sweep through her, toes to fingers, and it echoes through her again as Gwendolyn sighs against her skin. 

She’s quiet for a few moments, and Mildred would be happy to stay here forever. Christmas morning, loose from sex, the safety of Gwendolyn’s arms around her. 

But Gwendolyn presses her lips to Mildred’s neck, and Mildred shudders, and Gwendolyn chuckles. She shuffles herself off of Mildred, gives her a kiss for the whine she lets out at losing Gwendolyn’s warmth. “Come on, let’s get dressed,” she says. 

“Do we have to?”

Gwendolyn raises an eyebrow at her. “You don’t have to, but I think you’ll be a good deal warmer, darling.” 

“Other ways to keep me warm,” Mildred points out, lets a leg sneak out from beneath the top sheet Gwendolyn had draped over her. 

Gwendolyn hums, smiles gently, comes to her side again and kisses her gently. “Later,” she promises. 

For now, they dress, and Gwendolyn makes coffee. She even puts sugar in her own cup, though she wrinkles her nose at Mildred’s suggestion that she use just a little cream. 

There’s an odd mix of peace and excited energy that comes from Gwendolyn this morning. She places kiss after kiss to Mildred’s temple, brushing her fingers over her skin— or the fabric covering it— any time she’s within breathing distance. Mildred has half a mind to drag her back to bed and tire her out. But Gwendolyn keeps glancing at the tree, at the pile of gifts beneath it, and Mildred knows she’s eager to unwrap and discover it all. 

And Mildred’s reactions— Gwendolyn loves to shower her with any sort of affection, and gifts are no exception. Gwendolyn has loved watching Mildred go from unable to accept anything without turning a lovely shade of pink and stuttering excuses to warm smiles and only slightly hesitant hands. Gwendolyn loves to watch her eyes light up, watch her shoulders come up just slightly. The way her smile widens, the slight blush when it’s something she truly cherishes. 

So of course Gwendolyn wants to get to the tree, the presents. And Mildred wants to see her own favourite sight— the way Gwendolyn’s happiness lights up her entire body, brings the sunshine out of the sky and into her eyes. The smile that spreads across her face. The pressure of her fingers against Mildred’s skin. The feeling of her lips against Mildred’s when she says “thank you” without words. 

They settle with their coffee in front of the tree, with Mildred draped over Gwenolyn’s lap, her fingers in Mildred’s hair. They sit and sip for a while, silent and content. Gwendolyn— as she ever is— is the first to break the silence. 

“Would you like to open a present?”

She always asks. After their first Christmas, where Trevor and Andrew had visited and the pile of presents had been absolutely terrifying, Gwendolyn had learned to ask. She’d begun to ask because Mildred had burst into tears when she realized just how many presents by that tree had been for her. She’d begun to ask because the physical, real reminders that Mildred is loved had been absolutely overwhelming. 

But now, Mildred doesn’t cry with how overwhelmed and confused she is. She tilts her head up toward Gwendolyn, grinning, and murmurs, “Only if you open one of yours.” 

Gwendolyn grins back. 

Gwendolyn becomes the recipient of far more tame gifts than the night before— a new set of gardening tools, a pair of emerald green trousers that she knows will be immaculately tailored to her body, a ridiculously soft blue flannel blanket, a copy of _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ , and some of the collected works of E. E. Cummings. 

“Nobody,” Gwendolyn breathes, tracing her fingers over the cover of the collection of poems, “not even the rain, has such small hands.” 

She looks up to Mildred with tears at the corners of her eyes, pulls her in for a sweet and slow kiss. She keeps Mildred close with a hand at the back of Mildred’s neck. Mildred hums into the kiss and moves further into Gwendolyn’s lap, tugs the new blanket around the both of them. 

It can’t start smelling like coffee and lavender and old smoke soon enough. 

“Your turn,” Gwendolyn murmurs against her eventually, reaches for the closest package to the both of them. She hands it to Mildred, chuckles gently at the way she very carefully undoes the wrapping paper and neatly sets it aside. 

Mildred opens the admittedly somewhat small box to find another box, this one smaller, and she narrows her eyes at Gwendolyn, who laughs at her. “Go on, sweetness,” she murmurs, and Mildred tucks her thumb into the lid and pops it off gently. 

She finds a bottle of perfume— Le Dix, by Balenciaga. “Gwendolyn,” she half-gasps. “This is expensive.”

Gwendolyn shrugs. She offers no further explanation, but takes the small round bottle and uncaps it, tilts the slightly dripping cap towards Mildred. Mildred bites her lip through a smile and extends her wrist. Gwendolyn rubs the cap over her skin, just once, and tenderly brings the same wrist to Mildred’s neck, presses the two places together. Then she brings Mildred’s wrist to her nose, inhales deeply. 

It shouldn’t make Mildred shudder when she does that, but she shudders anyways. Gwendolyn’s eyes grow darker as she tucks her face into Mildred’s neck, inhales there too. “Violets,” she murmurs against Mildred’s skin, and Mildred grips at her shoulder instinctively, “and bergamot, and lemon.” 

Mildred hums in response, leans against Gwendolyn and her possessive hands. 

“As if I weren’t already addicted to your skin,” Gwendolyn mutters, and Mildred only jumps a little when Gwendolyn nips at her lightly. 

“Mngh,” Mildred responds, a perfectly eloquent response. Gwendolyn chuckles, and pats at her hip, and reaches for another package. “You cannot have a whole slew of these presents,” she says when she’s regained some of her neurological functions. “I will never make it to _later_.” 

“That would be a shame,” Gwendolyn smirks, presses the next box into her hands. “Open.” 

Mildred receives a new (pale lavender, silken) nightgown, a charming pair of blue heels, a new string of pearls and drop earrings to match, a new pair of stockings— Mildred refuses to buy her own, continually darning her old ones— and finally, a lovely, delicate, golden dagger. 

“Gwendolyn,” Mildred half-scolds. 

Gwendolyn shrugs. “It is sharp, so do be careful.”

Mildred stretches up, still in her lap, presses a thankful kiss to her cheek. “You needn’t have. We have— we can protect ourselves.” 

Gwendolyn turns her head, captures Mildred’s lips in hers. “I know. But this fits you rather more than…” she drifts off, flinches almost imperceptibly, tightens her hands against Mildred. “It reminded me of you.”

Mildred raises an eyebrow, twirls the triangular, stiletto blade in her hand with a barely disguised smirk. Gwendolyn rolls her eyes fondly, kisses her between each descriptor— “Delicate. Dangerous.” She pauses for a kiss longer than the others. “Stunning.” 

Eventually, Gwendolyn removes Mildred from her lap. Mildred whines and she shushes her, kisses her again, keeps what is supposed to be her blanket around Mildred. “I, uh,” she says as she stands, knees creaking ever so slightly. She clears her throat, and it suddenly occurs to Mildred that Gwendolyn is nervous. 

Why is Gwendolyn nervous? 

She shifts between her two feet for a moment, and Mildred notices she’s barefoot. Barefoot, on Christmas morning, in Mexico, nervous. 

“I have one more gift.”

Mildred looks up to her, brow furrowed, and Gwendolyn holds one finger out before she turns, walks to her side of the bed, pulls a small box from the drawer of the nightstand. Gwendolyn returns to Mildred, looks down at her for a few moments, lips pressed together, thumbs worrying over the paper. The soft sounds of her fingers against the smooth surface send Mildred’s heart racing. 

Then Gwendolyn kneels beside her. “Please,” she whispers, offering the package to Mildred with both hands. 

Mildred covers Gwendolyn’s hands with her own, searches her face with wide eyes. Gwendolyn smiles, though the nerves are still there, and Mildred can practically feel her heart beating out of her chest when her hand finds that spot. 

So she takes the little box, unwraps it carefully, finds black velvet staring back at her. “G…Gwendolyn?”

She finds her throat tightening around Gwendolyn’s name, tears springing to her eyes. Gwendolyn smiles, reaches out with a slightly trembling hand to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Go ahead.” 

Mildred blinks a few times, but it doesn’t help the watery sheen that’s come over everything. She sniffles, and pops the lid of the box open. 

All she sees, at first, is the glimmering of gold and silver. She blinks a few times more and gasps. 

A ring sits nestled in a mass of black velvet; the square diamond in the middle is securely held in place by a square, silver frame. On either side of the square, there are bow-like silver petals, each with a smaller diamond at the tip. An elliptical frame of silver and tiny, embedded squares of diamonds connects the the two sides of the ring. It all sits perched atop a simple, mid-sized golden band. 

“Gwendolyn,” Mildred hisses, because it’s all she can manage. 

Gwendolyn offers a watery laugh. “It wasn’t that expensive, my love. The engraving did add some cost.”

Mildred removes it from it’s perch with trembling fingers, turns the ring slightly and marvels at how the sunlight illuminates it.

 _Entreat me not to leave you,_ the inscription says on the underside of the silvery seat, _G.E.B._

“Gwendolyn,” Mildred repeats, more a sob, and Gwendolyn’s hands are at her cheeks immediately, thumbs brushing away her tears as she hiccups. Gwendolyn kisses her, and she clings to the collar of her robe with her free hand. 

“Marry me, Mildred,” Gwendolyn breathes against her. “Be my wife. Marry me, please.” 

Mildred sobs, surges forward to kiss Gwendolyn. “Yes,” she gasps, when she can finally make her body form words again. “Yes, Gwendolyn, please—“ 

She pushes the hand she has curled around the ring at Gwendolyn’s shoulder, and Gwendolyn pulls back after one more kiss to her lips. She takes Mildred’s left hand in hers, both their hands shaking, and slips the ring onto the third finger of her left hand. 

“Oh thank God,” Gwendolyn laughs tearily, “it fits.” 

Mildred laughs only slightly hysterically, staring down at the ring, then looks back up to Gwendolyn. 

Her eyes are so alight she can hardly bear it— more than sunshine, more than the way the ocean sparkles like stars in the daylight, more than the blinding light that greets them each morning through pale curtains. More blinding than any future Mildred has ever dared to let herself imagine. 

And then she laughs, and it startles Gwendolyn, but she can’t help it. She presses her fingers to Gwendolyn’s lips— her ring, Gwendolyn’s ring on her finger, sparkles back at her, and she’s momentarily too breathless to laugh— and rises, crosses to her side of the bed. Gwendolyn makes a questioning noise, turns her head to follow Mildred’s movements. 

Mildred returns with a small, square box, wrapped in the same paper as her own, and Gwendolyn grins. Mildred settles herself back onto Gwendolyn’s lap, straddling her legs, and offers Gwendolyn the box. 

Gwendolyn takes it, starts to undo the paper with one hand. She holds Mildred to her with the other, and Mildred lets her head rest at Gwendolyn’s shoulder, listening to her breathing, watching her open the little blue box. 

Gwendolyn’s ring is comparatively simple; a clean, gold band, with a square diamond in the middle, two diamonds on each side of the center diamond. 

Mildred had spent days agonizing over ring after ring, turning away Art Deco and floral and spiralling settings, desperate for something that wouldn’t clash with Gwendolyn’s style. Something that fit the simultaneously complex and simple woman, that fit her masculine and feminine energies both, that didn’t betray the strength behind all of Gwendolyn’s gentleness. 

When she’d found this one, she’d breathed a sigh of relief. The depth of the center diamond made up for the simple design, and she’d commissioned it while barely remembering her cover story. 

_My brother, he’s a little busy this season, you know, and completely clueless as to what his wife wants out of a ring. Sent me instead._

“Darling,” Gwendolyn says fondly, turns to press her lips to Mildred’s forehead. “How lovely.” 

“Will you marry me?” Mildred asks, as if Gwendolyn might change her mind, and Gwendolyn whimpers. 

“Oh, Mildred,” she breathes, pulls Mildred’s face to hers so their foreheads touch. “Mildred, of course I will, nothing—“ she swallows, shakes her head. “Nothing would make me happier.” 

Mildred kisses her again— kisses her fiancee, soon to be her wife— and eases the ring out of it’s place, takes Gwendolyn’s left hand in hers. She slips it on, and it’s a snug fit, but it does fit, and Gwendolyn flexes her hand and stares at it for a few moments before she looks back to Mildred. 

“I think this may be my favourite Christmas,” she announces. 

Mildred smiles, kisses her temple, her cheek, the tip of her nose. “Why’s that?” 

Gwendolyn’s hands squeeze at her hips, run over her thighs and then back up. “This is the Christmas I got you.” 

She grins at Mildred, and Mildred melts under the radiance of it, and the world smells of lavender and violets and coffee and _love_. 

They eventually make their way off of the floor and into the sunlight of their back patio, where Gwendolyn sets Mildred down and tends to their little garden. The phone rings after a while, and Mildred would jump, but she remembers that Trevor had promised to call on Christmas Day. 

“How are my girls?” he asks, and his tone is fond, and Mildred giggles against Gwendolyn. 

“Pressed up to this phone like sardines in a tin,” Gwendolyn drawls in response. “And soon to be hitched.” 

“What?!” Trevor practically shrieks, and both women pull their heads back from the phone. “That’s one hell of a Christmas present! Andrew! Andrew, they’re— Gwenny and Millie! They’re getting married!” 

They listen to the radio for a while, and without fail, every slow song has Gwendolyn pulling Mildred to her, wrapping her up and spinning them both slowly in the little free room in their apartment. “You have books to read,” Mildred pretends to protest, “and I have things to organize.” 

“Tomorrow,” Gwendolyn laughs, “tomorrow, we’ll do it all tomorrow, dance with me, Mildred.” 

Mildred cannot say no. 

Gwendolyn has turned back to the fire— she’s managed to keep it burning all day, and it keeps their apartment cosy and snug— to add a few more logs when her ears perk up at a new song. 

“Oh, Gwendolyn, no,” Mildred laughs, already bracing herself to be tugged up and spun in tight little circles. “We just ate.” 

“Dance with me,” Gwendolyn entreats, offering her left hand, and Mildred catches the way her ring glints in the firelight. 

Mildred feels her chest clench, and she slides her hand into Gwendolyn’s, though she mutters a quiet “That’s cheating.” 

_Long as roses bloom in May, my love for you will grow deeper with every passing day._

Gwendolyn has a hand at the small of Mildred’s back, holds their entwined hands against her chest. Mildred rests her cheek against Gwendolyn’s shoulder, wraps her hand around the back of that same shoulder and breathes deeply. 

Gwendolyn spins them, slowly, in a little circle that seems like it should be burned into their fireside rug by now, and sings along to Perry Como’s voice. 

“I’ll be there for you, to care for you, through laughter and through tears.” 

Mildred closes her eyes, nuzzles against Gwendolyn’s neck and lets Gwendolyn guide her feet. She’s never felt quite so serene, quite so safe. She listens to Gwendolyn sing and feels the way it vibrates through her chest and into Mildred’s. 

Can two people become one? Mildred would like to try. She would like to become one with Gwendolyn, to accept all that love and care, to be always this safe, to feel this bone-deep peace every moment of their days. 

_Till the wells run dry, and each mountain disappears, I’ll be there for you, to care for you, through laughter and through tears._

Mildred lifts her head, and Gwendolyn turns her face to look into Mildred’s eyes. 

“So take my heart in sweet surrender,” Gwendolyn croons, and Mildred is suddenly struck by how lucky she feels, swallows around the newish lump in her throat. “And tenderly say that I’m the one you love and live for…” 

Gwendolyn stills the two of them, and Mildred slides her hand from Gwendolyn’s to brace herself at Gwendolyn’s shoulder. She rocks forward on her toes, trying for any height she can get. 

“Till the end of time.”

Mildred smiles, rocks back to her heels, breathes only somewhat unsteadily as Gwendolyn’s hands find her hips. “Gwendolyn,” she murmurs, “I love you.” 

Gwendolyn kisses her. 

Mildred winds her fingers through Gwendolyn’s hair, nails scratching gently at her scalp— when she goes to move her hands to Gwendolyn’s shoulders, her left hand gets caught momentarily. They break the kiss, laughing, and Mildred manages to work her hand free without pulling any of Gwendolyn’s hair loose. “We’ll have to get used to that,” she says, adjusting the ring where it sits on her finger. 

“I don’t mind,” Gwendolyn says, and her hands move from Mildred’s waist to her arms, squeezing lightly at her biceps before she kisses her again. 

Mildred lets out a soft moan as Gwendolyn nips at her, wraps her arms around Gwendolyn’s waist to pull her closer. Heat builds in her, and it’s not from her back at the fireplace, and she hears the ocean in her ears. 

“Gwendolyn,” she urges, and Gwendolyn pulls back, searches Mildred’s face where her eyes have gone stormy. Mildred pulls lightly at the tie on Gwendolyn’s robe. 

“Bed,” Gwendolyn commands, and Mildred nearly vaults over the armchair in front of her in her haste to obey. Gwendolyn laughs. “Slow down!” 

“I can’t,” Mildred responds, her desperation only building at the gentleness in Gwendolyn’s tone. “I need you.”

“Oh, darling,” Gwendolyn murmurs, shucking her robe off her shoulders as she approaches, gather’s Mildred’s face in her hands. “You need only ask.”

Mildred pushes one silky strap off her shoulder, watches Gwendolyn’s eyes follow it as it falls. “Please, Gwendolyn?”

Gwendolyn bends, gathers the skirt of Mildred’s gown in her fingers until she’s able to slip her hands beneath the hem as she mouths at Mildred’s neck. Mildred grips at her arms and whines. Gwendolyn’s hands are warm, and they’re beautiful, and they’re not enough, she needs more. 

So she wraps her fingers around Gwendolyn’s wrists and pulls her hands up, rucking up the fabric until she can pull the gown up and over her head herself, until Gwendolyn’s hands find her breasts and her lips find her collarbones. She shudders in delight, drags her fingers down Gwendolyn’s back, breathes in a slow and steadying breath. 

Mildred finds herself falling towards the bed, and she lets herself go, trusting Gwendolyn to catch her— and Gwendolyn does, cushions her head with a gentle hand, rolls them on the bed until Mildred is above her. 

“Hello, beautiful,” she murmurs, and Mildred bends to kiss her, runs her hands over the softness of Gwendolyn’s chest. Gwendolyn hums against her, cradles Mildred in her arms, between her legs. Mildred parts from her, just for a moment, cups a breast in each hand and watches Gwendolyn’s face. Gwendolyn shivers, blinks up at her with stormy eyes. 

“I love you,” Mildred breathes, presses a kiss to the corner of Gwendolyn’s mouth, slides away from her before Gwendolyn can recapture her lips. She peppers kisses along Gwendolyn’s jaw instead. She follows the line of her throat until it leads her to the dip between Gwendolyn’s collarbones, breathes deep into that spot, smiles at the stuttering inhale that comes with the way her thumbs brush across Gwendolyn’s breasts. 

“Mildred,” Gwendolyn utters, “I love you, come here, please—“ 

“Not yet,” Mildred responds. She moves herself lower, lets Gwendolyn grasp at her shoulders as she presses her lips to the valley between Gwendolyn’s breasts. She turns her head, kisses the side of Gwendolyn’s left breast, kisses around the top and opposite side, watches carefully as the nipple stiffens. 

“Baby…”

Mildred doesn’t fight the shiver that goes through her, doesn’t fight the need to nip at Gwendolyn for trying to distract her. Gwendolyn jerks, laughs weakly, buries her right hand in Mildred’s hair. “Darling, I thought you— oh!” 

Mildred releases her breast with a soft popping noise, grins up at her wickedly. “Yes, though I’d like to taste, first, if that’s alright?”

She props herself up on one elbow, only arches into Gwendolyn’s hand in her hair slightly. Gwendolyn watches her fondly, sighs with all the affection Mildred tries to believe she might one day deserve. “Don’t tease me too terribly,” she murmurs, and Mildred grins. 

She moves to Gwendolyn’s right breast, repeats her ministrations there, then finds the ticklish spot just above Gwendolyn’s right hip and blows gently against the skin. “Mildred!” 

Mildred giggles as Gwendolyn jerks, and then Gwendolyn tugs at her hair and the giggle becomes a moan. “Oh, Gwen—“ 

Gwendolyn tugs again, and she follows the guidance, finds herself poised exactly where Gwendolyn wants her. 

And Lord— if that isn’t too blasphemous— is the view enticing. 

She lets her eyes flit up to Gwendolyn’s face for a moment, watches the way her chest rises and falls, the parting of her lips, the storm behind her eyes. She takes all of this in, tries to memorize it, sear it into her brain before she dives in. 

Gwendolyn is her favorite smell, and she happens to be Mildred’s favorite taste as well. Gwendolyn groans as Mildred’s tongue brushes against her, lets her hips chase after that warmth. Mildred is happy to comply, licking along in broad, flat strokes that have Gwendolyn gasping for air. 

“Please, baby, Mildred, I—“ she tugs at Mildred’s hair again as she cuts off, bucks against her when she moans at the pulling. “Fuck, oh, there!” 

Mildred hums in response, keeps her tongue pressed to Gwendolyn’s clit, feels a surge of pride when she feels a second hand wind into her hair. She hums again in sympathy as Gwendolyn gasps, grinds down against her. She relishes in the stuttering of Gwendolyn’s hips, digs her fingers into the flesh of her thighs, moans in tandem with Gwendolyn until she reaches a fever pitch.

“Oh— fuck— I—“ 

“Mmm!” 

Gwendolyn’s thighs clamp around her head, and Mildred loses herself in the floaty haze of breathlessness as Gwendolyn’s body shakes around her. She pulls Gwendolyn’s thighs tighter around her head, keeps humming until there’s nothing left in her body, until Gwendolyn is gasping wordlessly above her. 

Gwendolyn pulls at Mildred’s hair, hard enough to dislodge her, and Mildred gasps in a breath. 

She’d happily die that way, buried in Gwendolyn, but it would make Gwendolyn sad. So she doesn’t try for it. Instead, she follows Gwendolyn’s hands to where they pull her; up to Gwendolyn’s mouth for a kiss. 

Gwendolyn holds her there, gasps around her own taste on Mildred’s tongue, sucks in hungry breaths through her nose. Mildred whimpers softly, and Gwendolyn’s hands slide down her back until they frame her hips. 

Gwendolyn rolls them, grinds her hips down against Mildred, growls slightly when Mildred throws her head back to gasp for air. “Please,” Mildred begs.

“Please what?” 

Mildred groans, almost asks Gwendolyn not to tease her. But she gathers her courage instead. “Use the— your gift,” she stutters. 

Gwendolyn pauses, lifts herself from where she’s been mouthing at Mildred’s neck. She meets Mildred’s eyes with her own. 

“Please,” Mildred repeats, squeezes at her arms. “I want— I want you to take me, Gwendolyn.” She pauses again, swallows. “Please.”

Gwendolyn dips down to kiss her, gentle and slow, then lifts herself off of Mildred. “Alright.” 

Mildred props herself up on her elbows as Gwendolyn moves through the room, watches her as she worries her teeth between her lips. Her heart thuds in her chest. 

Eventually she works up enough courage to speak. “I want…” 

Gwendolyn pauses, bent over from where she’s stepping into the harness. “You want?” 

Mildred swallows, and Gwendolyn tugs the harness the rest of the way up, approaches the bed again as she tightens and adjusts the straps. Mildred tries to ignore the way the too-red phallus-like _object_ bounces between her legs. 

“Mildred,” Gwendolyn says, sits down next to her. Mildred’s eyes snap up and away from the harness. “I need you to talk to me, sweetness. What do you want? You can tell me.” 

Gwendolyn’s hand comes up to frame her face, and Mildred leans into it for a moment. She takes another breath before speaking. 

“Do you remember… we— oh, we were still in California,” she realizes, nearly blushes. “And you—“ she worries at her lip for a moment, watches as Gwendolyn searches her own memories. “You had me, I don’t know, four times?” 

She does know. It was four. Four before she pleaded with Gwendolyn to stop, asked for mercy. 

Gwendolyn fights the smirk on her face. “And what about those four times?” she prods gently. 

Mildred can’t fight the heat that rises to her face. “You said the most you’d ever…” she gestures vaguely in the air. “Climaxed, was eight times.”

“Yes?”

Mildred looks to the ceiling, wars with herself about even asking. But, God, she wants it, and she wants Gwendolyn, and she wants Gwendolyn to absolutely ruin her, so she has to ask. 

“I want to try for eight.” 

She knows she’s absolutely beet red— probably redder than the lipstick she likes to wear. She cannot look at Gwendolyn, too afraid there will be some sort of wry amusement or patronizing look. 

But Gwendolyn gently grabs her face, turns her head until she’s forced to look. “Do you remember what else I said about that experiment?”

Mildred chews at her bottom lip for a moment. “That you trusted the woman who… uhm… who you were with?”

Gwendolyn nods. “Yes. And we discussed it beforehand.” 

Mildred feels herself deflate a little. 

“Darling, no—“ Gwendolyn kisses her forehead quickly. “I’m not saying we can’t right now, goodness no. I’m saying I need for there to be signals, of a sort. I need to know that you’ll be able to tell me to stop, even if you can’t say it.” 

“But you won’t hurt me,” Mildred protests slightly. 

Gwendolyn smiles, rewards her with a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “No, I would never want to. But I might accidentally do so, if you run out of words to tell me.” 

Mildred frowns, pouts at Gwendolyn as best as she can. “Then what do I do? Go limp? Shove you off?” 

Gwendolyn takes Mildred’s hands. “Either of those things might happen naturally, if you’re overwhelmed enough, but you might not want me to stop then. So we come up with specific signals.” 

Mildred feels her eyes narrow, flexes her fingers in Gwendolyn’s hands. “What kind of signals?”

Gwendolyn slides her hand just barely out of Mildred’s, taps twice on her wrist. “What?” Mildred asks. Gwendolyn taps again, two times, quickly and with enough force that Mildred can’t mistake it for an accident. 

She turns her head slightly, looks at Gwendolyn slightly from the side. 

“That means stop,” Gwendolyn says. “Two taps, quickly, anywhere I feel them. As soon as I feel those two taps. Come here.”

Mildred does, perches on Gwendolyn’s knee, lets Gwendolyn pull her close and kiss her. “Tell me to stop,” Gwendolyn murmurs, kisses her again before adding, “whenever you want, tell me to stop.” 

Mildred doesn’t want her to stop. But Gwendolyn won’t move her hands, and won’t let Mildred push for anything more, so she huffs against Gwendolyn and taps at her shoulder, twice. 

Gwendolyn pulls away immediately. “That’s a good girl.” Mildred shudders with it. “We can use words, too,” Gwendolyn adds, stroking down her back. 

“You use words plenty,” Mildred grumbles, and Gwendolyn laughs at her. 

“No, specific words,” she says, stops Mildred from interrupting her again. “Red for stop, yellow for slow down, green for go.” Mildred nods, and Gwendolyn combs her fingers through Mildred’s hair. “Where are you now, my love?”

“Green, I think,” Mildred says. Gwendolyn pauses, looks her with a raised eyebrow. “Yes, definitely green.” 

Gwendolyn kisses her, once, twice, three short times. “And now?”

“Green,” Mildred sighs. “More, please.” 

She earns a smile and a gentle “Good girl,” for that. Mildred shivers, and Gwendolyn presses kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat, focuses on a few of the freckles she finds along the way. She follows the freckles on Mildred’s skin down and across her chest, slowly lowers Mildred to the bed, presses their bodies together. 

“Color?”

“Green,” Mildred gasps. She can feel the rubber of the phallus between them, warming slowly, and she remembers how badly she wanted Gwendolyn to take her right on the beach when she’d first learned to swim. How she’d wished Gwendolyn had been a man so she could. 

Well, part of that is different now. 

She tilts her hips up towards Gwendolyn’s, fumbles towards Gwendolyn’s thigh. “Gwen, please,” she utters, arching her back so she can reach better. Her fingers land on their target with just enough time to dig in as Gwendolyn’s mouth finds her breast, and she gasps again. “Please!” 

Gwendolyn hums a question into her skin and she shudders, hips bucking up and forcing her back down against the sheets. The strap bounces against her stomach and she nearly reaches between them for it.

Gwendolyn parts from her before she can, props herself up. “Please what?” she asks, and Mildred wants to scream. 

She reaches for Gwendolyn’s hips instead, tugs them forward insistently. Gwendolyn breathes out a short laugh. “Ah.”

Then she reaches up to her own hair, twists it back and away from her face and into a neat little bun. She tucks it into itself, then pokes at it with a few fingers, testing for stability. It’s a bit messy, but it sticks. 

Mildred feels a bit messy. She feels hot all over, and sticky, and oh God, Gwendolyn in a bun— 

“Darling?” Gwendolyn asks, looks a little distressed as she looms over Mildred, hands on either side of Mildred’s face. “Did something just— are you alright? Color?” 

“Green,” Mildred squeaks. “Very green!” 

Her face must have gone that awful shade of red, because Gwendolyn looks unconvinced. “Are you sure you’re alright? It’s not bad to say yellow, sweetheart, I won’t be mad at—“ 

“No, I am— it, uhm, the—“ she swallows, squeezes her thighs together, possibly turns more red at the wetness she can feel between them. “You put your hair in a bun,” she says lamely. 

“Oh,” Gwendolyn breathes, starts to reach for her hair, “I can take that out—“

“No!” It’s another squeak, and Gwendolyn freezes. “No, keep it, please!” 

Gwendolyn is truly baffled now, and it’s clear to Mildred that she won’t be going any further without some sort of explanation. So Mildred shifts her legs, covers her face briefly to try and recover some sense of dignity. 

“Before we— before I admitted my feelings,” she starts, and her voice is shaky, and oh God, she’s actually admitting this. “When I was— well, when you were next door, and I was, uhm. With. That man.” She peeks between her fingers, finds Gwendolyn frowning above her. “When I was imagining you instead,” she clarifies. 

Gwendolyn relaxes a little, but she’s still waiting and watching. “In the— the fantasies that I— I narrated, you, uhm— and you showed up instead, and I— you were—“ 

Her voice fails her, and she whimpers and gestures at Gwendolyn’s hair. 

“I was wearing a bun,” Gwendolyn finishes dumbly. 

“Yes.” It’s hardly more than a whimper, and Mildred hides her face again. 

“What else was I…doing?” Gwendolyn asks. 

And the husk in her voice is unmistakeable, and Mildred whines, long and high-pitched. 

“Gwen, please!” 

“Tell me, baby, what did I do?”

She peeks out from beneath her fingers, and the look on Gwendolyn’s face— oh, it’s wicked, and Mildred is going to die before she can even come once. And Gwen is infuriatingly still, just waiting for direction.

“You—“ her voice breaks, and she swallows, clears it, swallows again. “You held me by the neck and kissed me.”

Gwendolyn’s left hand comes up to frame her neck, and that smug smile appears, and it’s the same as the one she’d seen in her fantasies. Oh, God, it’s identical. She leans down, kisses Mildred, and it’s barely any more than a brush of lips, lingering pressure, and it’s just the same as she’d imagined. She whimpers. 

Gwendolyn pulls back. “And then?”

“You watched me, watched my face,” Mildred breathes. This shouldn’t be so hard, it had never been so hard with the men she’d bedded. But of course Gwendolyn is different, because Gwendolyn is significant. Because Gwendolyn will soon be her wife.

And the thought of that sends a shiver through her. She’s Gwendolyn’s sweetheart, someone Gwendolyn might write home to, and it’s real, this is real. God, this is real. 

“And you kissed me,” she adds, “again, and again—“ 

Gwendolyn cuts her off with another kiss, hand wandering from her neck to brush against her breast, travel down to her side, pet down her thigh. Her hands wander, and Mildred whimpers beneath them, chases them with her body, clings to Gwendolyn’s arms and keeps her lips close. 

“And did I have my way with you?” Gwendolyn asks softly, gently, and Mildred can’t do anything but nod frantically. Gwendolyn kisses her again, and again, and again, and her hands wander, and she hisses lightly when she brushes against the wetness already making Mildred’s thighs slippery against each other. 

“Oh, baby,” she murmurs, and it’s so fond that it makes Mildred whine. “So ready for me, so beautiful like this.”

Mildred nods, squeezes her eyes shut for a moment before looking back up at Gwendolyn. “Gwen, please, _please_.” 

“I’ve got you,” Gwendolyn answers. She manoeuvres the rubber object between them, and Mildred hisses slightly with it, having grown unused to something so…

Large, really. 

It had really been midsized, compared to everything else in the line of options. She’d been downright frightened of some of the larger options, and Fernanda had assured that no, she did not need to buy those. They could even go smaller if she wanted, these things came in all sorts of configurations— 

Mildred had bought the first one that seemed suited to Gwendolyn, eager to go home to the comforting things she knew. 

But Gwendolyn pauses, waits until she’s happy with how Mildred is breathing. “Color?” she asks. 

“Green,” Mildred says, brings her hands to Gwendolyn’s hips and tugs at the leather there. “Green, Gwendolyn, please.” 

“Alright, baby,” Gwendolyn murmurs. 

She pushes in, and Mildred feels her body tense, prepares herself for the first few pulls and pushes that always feel uncomfortable. 

But Gwendolyn doesn’t move. 

It’s not until Mildred opens her eyes that she realizes she’d even closed them in the first place. Gwendolyn is looking down at her, waiting for a sign that she’s alright, or that she should stop, just holding herself still. 

Mildred’s heart clenches. 

This hadn’t been what she’d imagined, because she’d not known. She’d never known someone who would wait, someone who would set up rules and ways out ahead of time. She’d never known someone who cared that much about her and her comfort. 

She’d never known love, really, and here Gwendolyn is, loving her, hovering above her, holding herself still and waiting. 

Mildred clenches down around the strap, and she gasps at the feeling, eyes sliding shut again. She’s had Gwendolyn’s fingers, over and over, but this is more substantial, and it’s still Gwendolyn, still her Gwen— 

“Where are we, baby?” Gwendolyn rasps, and Mildred’s eyes shoot open again. 

“Green,” she says, tugs at the leather around Gwendolyn’s hips, scrabbles to touch skin. She only stops when Gwendolyn places a gentle hand on the lower part of her stomach, fixes her with a patient and loving look that frankly takes her breath away. 

Gwendolyn doesn’t move until she thinks Mildred is ready, and when she does move it’s to push in further, and Mildred’s breath leaves her body in a soft, breathy moan that Gwendolyn encourages. 

She sets a slow pace, one that lets her press her lips to Mildred’s neck and chest and shoulders and still watch Mildred’s face. One that’s satisfying, at first, the slow drag of what is ostensibly Gwendolyn inside of her. But she wants more. 

So she rocks her hips down onto the thing, meets the slow thrust of Gwendolyn’s hips with a more urgent push of her own. 

Gwendolyn takes the hint, picks up the pace just a little, and there’s a new sound in the mix that Mildred hasn’t heard in literal years. One that used to disgust her, that she used to try and drown out. But now she listens for it, and her hand wraps around Gwendolyn’s wrist and pushes ever so slightly, and the rhythm of that sound echoes her heart. 

Gwendolyn’s thumb brushes against her clit before she can process the sweep of it across her body, and she jerks. She bucks up into Gwendolyn with a gasp. She whimpers, holds tight to Gwendolyn’s wrist and shoulder, begs Gwendolyn for more, please, more. 

Gwendolyn lifts Mildred’s thigh over her own hip, and the strap pushes deeper, and Mildred cries out. 

“Yeah?” 

“Gwen!” 

“I’m here, baby.”

Mildred wants— needs?— proof, and she scrabbles at Gwendolyn’s shoulder, tries to pull her closer and ends up digging her nails into Gwendolyn’s flesh. She pants and somehow manages to lift her other leg, wraps it around Gwendolyn’s hip, moans with the extra change of angle. 

Gwendolyn kisses her, murmurs against her lips, and she can’t anymore— Gwendolyn is everywhere, and it’s too much, not enough, and she pushes at the hand working at her clit and keens and Gwendolyn doesn’t let up and it’s all— 

Mildred sees stars, when she comes, and she can distantly hear her own voice mixing with Gwendolyn’s soft, affectionate words. Gwendolyn has made her come like this before, but it feels different this way, and Mildred doesn’t know how, but she thinks she’s somehow left her body. 

She finds her way back, though, hips still rocking as Gwendolyn slows to a stop, breaths heaving in and out. She feels Gwendolyn’s fingers at her cheek, and she turns towards them with a whimper. 

“Hi, beautiful,” Gwendolyn breathes, “you okay there?”

“F-f-fuck,” Mildred stutters, and Gwendolyn laughs, kisses her jaw with just enough pressure to make it count. 

“Yes.”

“I see why that’s— oh, shhh—“ she shudders, and Gwendolyn uses her own hips to pin Mildred’s to the bed so they stop rocking. “Why that’s illegal.” 

Gwendolyn hums in agreement. She peppers kisses along Mildred’s jaw, nuzzles when Mildred tilts her head up with a sigh. “You alright?” she asks eventually. “That was quite a lot for just the first.”

“I’m, ah…” she fades off for a moment, tries to remember the words. She doesn’t want to use her two taps, she knows that. Gwendolyn’s eyes appear in front of her, just a little concern in those baby blues, and she reaches up to stroke her cheek. “Green,” she remembers, “I’d like to keep going.”

Gwendolyn smiles, kisses her sweeter than the gingerbread they’d shared before it cooled all the way. “I love you,” she says softly, “you know that?”

Mildred nods, wraps her arms around Gwendolyn’s shoulders and nuzzles against her. “I love you. So much.” Gwendolyn kisses her shoulder, her neck, before she goes to pull away, and Mildred’s hand comes to cup the back of Gwendolyn’s head. “Stay,” she asks gently, “stay there?”

Gwendolyn’s breath stutters for a moment before she nods, reaches behind her slightly to pull Mildred’s thighs further up towards her waist. Mildred hooks her ankles together, tries to take even breaths, but it’s hard with Gwendolyn’s lips at her throat and hips pressed to hers. 

She heaves a gasp in when Gwendolyn tilts her hips back, whines at the way the strap seems to glide effortlessly within her now. Gwendolyn nips gently at her neck and she twitches towards her, feels her fingers tighten in Gwendolyn’s hair. 

Gwendolyn’s voice is muffled against her neck. “You taste like Spain.”

Mildred shudders, pulls lightly at Gwendolyn’s hair. She imagines the two of them there— in Spain, in some elaborate bed bigger than Mildred will know what to do with, and Gwendolyn wrapped around her just like this, refusing to let her go or let her up to see whatever it is Spain has to offer. 

And she wants that. 

She lets out a low whine, and Gwendolyn chuckles against her neck, braces herself against the bed as begins to thrust a little more evenly. Mildred clings to her, finds her calves pushing against Gwendolyn’s backside, trying to drive her deeper, quicker, for more. Gwendolyn is stubborn, though— she sets a steady pace, the kick in her breathing the only hint that this takes any effort at all from her. 

“More,” Mildred gasps. “I want more.”

“More?” Gwendolyn asks, and she’s teasing. One of her hands glides down to squeeze affectionately at Mildred’s hip before she continues. “You can have more if you want.” 

Mildred is about to attempt to scold Gwendolyn, and then there’s a hard thrust that actually moves her body on the bed, and the scold becomes a half-scream. It takes her another breath before she can manage actual words, and even then it’s only a frantic “Gwen!” 

“Mmmm?”

“Mo— fuck, I can—“

She cuts off as Gwendolyn thrusts against her again, and her whole body is tight, gripping at Gwendolyn, and every breath comes with a whined exhale, and Gwendolyn is still just mouthing and sucking and licking at her neck, like this is a casual Sunday morning makeout session rather than what it is.

What it is, which is Gwendolyn driving her into the mattress, leaving her breathless and desperate and writhing. 

She spends so long on the precipice that the fall nearly takes her by surprise, leaves her only time to gasp “I’m—“ before her body is shaking and twitching and writhing without her control, and Gwendolyn is cooing against the low moans she’s letting out. 

Eventually Gwendolyn’s hips become too much, and her throat works enough that she can rasp a “yellow!” 

Gwendolyn eases herself to a stop, pushes herself up on her arms. She peers down at Mildred, watches her chest heave and her throat bob as she swallows. 

“I’m going to pull out,” she murmurs after a few moments. 

“No,” Mildred starts to whine, but Gwendolyn places a warm, gentle hand on her chest. 

“I won’t be but a minute, sweet thing. You need just the tiniest break.”

Mildred whines again, but she lets her thighs fall away from Gwendolyn’s hips. She winces when Gwendolyn pulls out, tugs at her hand and hopes Gwendolyn will take the hint. She does— she leans up and kisses Mildred for a few moments, soft and sweet and gentle, before she pats her cheek. “Just one moment,” she promises, and then her warmth is gone. 

Mildred props herself up on shaking arms. “What are you…?”

Gwendolyn glances over her shoulder with a smile. “Water, darling. If you’re going to be screaming like that, we’re both going to need some water.”

“I was screaming?” Mildred asks, genuinely baffled. 

Gwendolyn chuckles fondly. “Mhm. Oh, don’t,” she half-scolds as she returns to their bed and spots the flush spreading across Mildred’s chest. “I’ve made you scream before.” 

Mildred swallows thickly, accepts the glass of water Gwendolyn hands her. She takes little sips like Gwendolyn instructs, squeezes her thighs together when Gwendolyn praises her for it. She decides she’s had enough of that, tries to set the glass aside. 

“Mildred,” Gwendolyn says, stopping her hand. “Drink, and rest a little.”

“I’m fine,” Mildred insists, “I want more.”

Gwendolyn’s eyes rake over her and she shivers. “I know you do, and you’ll get that.” Mildred shudders again. “But you just expended a lot of energy, and you’ve set a goal for yourself, and you, my dear heart,” she adds softly, a hand coming up to cup her cheek, “are very stubborn.”

The unspoken words between them are clear— Mildred won’t stop until she’s gotten what she wants, but Gwen isn’t going to let her destroy herself to get there. 

Mildred takes another sip, petulantly pushes the glass at Gwendolyn. She takes it with a smile, takes a long drink, and hands the glass back. 

“How considerate of you, sweetness,” she rumbles, and Mildred nearly chokes on her next sip. Gwendolyn laughs.

“I am happy to take you apart,” Gwendolyn murmurs as her hands find Mildred’s hips. “But I would like to be able to put you back together again later. I rather like having you around.” 

The end is almost shy, and Mildred tips forwards to bonk their foreheads together. “I love you,” she breathes.

“And I love you,” Gwendolyn responds, takes Mildred’s left hand and brushes her thumb over where her ring now sits. “Which is why I will not kill you by making love to you.”

Mildred giggles at that, tilts her head up to kiss Gwendolyn. 

It starts slow and sweet, with Gwendolyn pulling away every few moments to force them both to breathe. But Mildred is insistent— Gwendolyn takes the glass and sets it on her nightstand before Mildred can toss it to the floor. She keeps her hands at Mildred’s hips and lets Mildred decide when she’s ready. 

She’s only a bit surprised when Mildred swings a leg across her hips, hovers above her for a few moments before kissing her again. Her hands frame Gwendolyn’s face as she tugs gently at Gwendolyn’s lip, grinds forward slightly. 

There’s too much of a mess between her legs to allow for any friction, and Gwendolyn holds her too close to still anyway. She whines and slides a hand between them, grabs for the rubber phallus. 

“You want to ride it?” Gwendolyn asks, and Mildred jerks, nods frantically. 

“I want to ride you,” Mildred manages, and Gwendolyn hisses in a breath, lifts Mildred’s hips with her hands. 

“Christ, Mildred,” she rasps. She lets Mildred position herself, waits and keeps Mildred supported above her. When Mildred looks to her, eyes wide and a little uncertain but full of trust, she smiles. “Go ahead, then, baby, ride me.” 

Mildred lets her eyes fall shut as she sinks down, presses their foreheads together and shudders as she comes to a stop. Gwendolyn’s hands haven’t left her hips. 

They don’t leave her hips as she raises herself up, or as she sinks down again. Only one moves when her arms wrap around Gwendolyn’s shoulders, desperate for something to lean against, and Gwendolyn’s hand comes up to brush along her side. It returns to her hip, where Gwendolyn gives her an affectionate squeeze. 

She’s concentrating so hard on moving right, at trying to hit that spot Gwendolyn knows how to find in her, she almost doesn’t hear when Gwendolyn asks, “Does that feel good?”

Mildred whines a question, rolls her hips in Gwendolyn’s lap and jerks at the feeling. 

“Does that feel good?” Gwendolyn repeats. “Do you feel good, riding me like that? Does that feel good, beautiful?” 

Mildred doesn’t feel beautiful. She feels hot all over, and she feels like she might die if she can’t figure out how to hit the right spots, and she feels Gwendolyn’s hands on her body, but she’s not sure she feels beautiful. 

Gwendolyn’s thumbs brush against her nipples and she gasps, arches backwards a little, and oh fuck— 

“Gwen,” she gasps. “There, fuck, there!” 

Gwendolyn lifts Mildred slightly, ignores the whine that comes from it, scoots herself back on the bed. She lays herself down flat, then slides one hand down to Mildred’s stomach, pushes lightly, returns the other hand to her hip. “Lean back,” she directs, “I’ve got you.”

Mildred does, and there’s the pressure she needs, and oh— 

“Gwen,” she groans, gasps again, lifts herself up on thighs that are already shaking. “Oh, God, Gwen—“ 

The hand on Mildred’s stomach slides down further, and she brushes teasingly at Mildred’s clit. Mildred jerks and she lets out a pleased little hum. “Keep going, baby, you’re almost there, that’s a good girl.” 

Mildred clenches down as she rolls her hips, the words shooting right through her. God, it isn’t fair, what simple words can do to her, when they come from Gwendolyn’s voice. She lifts herself up and sinks back down, up and down, and whines as Gwendolyn brushes just barely against her clit. 

“Please,” Mildred begs, and her voice is absolutely wrecked, maybe Gwendolyn was right about the water and the exertion. “Please, Gwen.” 

“Please?” Gwendolyn teases, and Mildred grits her teeth around a moan as she slams herself back down. “Ah. Show me, you sweet thing, come for me again.”

And that’s all it takes, and Mildred freezes where she is as she trembles, head tilting back as Gwendolyn’s name falls from her lips. Gwendolyn sits up, pulls her close, and she jerks at the change in angle and Gwendolyn’s lips at her throat. Her whole body twitches and she distantly wonders how she ever accepted anything other than Gwendolyn. 

Gwendolyn’s lips go from demanding to gentle, and then she’s lifting Mildred off of her and laying her on the bed again. Mildred surges up to kiss her, she has to, and Gwendolyn hums into the kiss, happy to oblige. 

“Legs up,” she says eventually, patting her shoulder, and Mildred tries.

“Help,” she manages, and it makes Gwendolyn pause. 

Mildred can bring her legs up, but she doesn’t have the strength to make them bend like that at the moment. She pulls Gwendolyn down for another kiss. “I want to,” she says when they part, “I— so green, Gwendolyn, I just…” 

She gestures at her legs, bent and propped up on the bed. 

Gwendolyn closes her eyes. “What am I going to do with you?” she sighs, and it’s so fond, so affectionate, that Mildred bites her lip. 

“I have a few ideas?”

Gwendolyn opens her eyes again and laughs, kisses Mildred. “I’m going to make you take another break after this.”

“Please don’t,” Mildred murmurs, chases after her mouth. “I want more.” 

“You have to be able to walk eventually,” Gwendolyn insists. 

“Not today I don’t,” Mildred counters. “You can carry me to the shower.” 

Gwendolyn frowns again, and Mildred pouts. “It’s Christmas, Gwendolyn. Please?” 

Gwendolyn pretends to roll her eyes. “C’mere, baby.”

She hikes Mildred’s legs over her shoulders, presses forward on them to test whether it will hurt Mildred. Mildred reaches up to kiss her instead, and Gwendolyn sinks into it, spends a moment just savoring the trust Mildred has placed in her. 

But she does want to give this to Mildred, and they’re not quite to number four yet, so she pulls back. “And if you need to stop?”

“Two taps,” Mildred answers immediately, staring up at Gwendolyn. 

“Good girl,” Gwendolyn murmurs. “Show me.”

Mildred taps twice, quickly, somewhat hard, at her shoulder. “Good girl,” Gwendolyn repeats, leans down to kiss her again. “That’s my girl.”

Mildred feels Gwendolyn against the backs of her thighs, this time, and it’s intoxicating, and she reaches past her own legs to brush at Gwendolyn’s thighs momentarily. God, her skin is so soft, and her other hand is buried in Gwendolyn’s hair, which is almost softer, and something about all that gentleness makes everything more. 

It’s overwhelming. Gwendolyn is overwhelming, and she’s driving in to Mildred with soft little pants, and Mildred wants more. 

“Harder,” she gasps, and Gwendolyn lifts her head, blinks at her. “Harder, Gwen, please?”

“Mildred,” Gwendolyn groans, and she gives Mildred a thrust that has her rocking against the mattress, and she thinks she hears the headboard thunk against the wall. 

“Yes,” Mildred gasps. “More—“ 

Gwendolyn groans again, lets her hands fall to Mildred’s hips to keep her still. The headboard continues to thunk softly against the wall, and Mildred distant thinks they ought to put something there next time, just in case there are neighbors. 

If there are any today, well. Any hope of secrecy is long gone. 

Gwendolyn’s pants have become soft grunts, and they’re joined by the sound of skin slapping against skin, and Mildred can smell lavender and coffee grounds and sex in the air and the way Gwendolyn smells after she’s gone for a long, hard swim.

“Shit,” Mildred curses, tugs at Gwendolyn’s hair, only slightly regretful as the bun comes loose. “Kiss me.” 

Gwendolyn does, and they keep coming loose from each other with the force of Gwendolyn thrusting against her, but Gwendolyn keeps coming back to her. She keeps coming back. And she keeps pushing harder, and Mildred can hardly breathe, and it feels so good, almost too good. 

It sneaks up on her, takes her by surprise, when she comes, and she doesn’t even have time to warn Gwendolyn, accidentally bites her lower lip. She keens, and Gwendolyn slows slightly, but she fumbles for Gwendolyn’s hips and tries to tug her forward. 

“Keep— oh, oh, ff—“ she cuts herself off with a gasp, her arms jerking and pulling at the harness. Gwendolyn’s hips are forced forward. “Yes! Fuck, k-keep going!” 

Gwendolyn kisses her jaw, picks the pace back up, makes encouraging little sounds as the moans she lets out arc higher and higher. 

She comes a fifth time with a breathy little whine, and her legs straighten over Gwendolyn’s shoulders as her toes curl. She pushes hard at Gwendolyn’s thigh, nails digging in, and Gwendolyn stops her thrusting immediately. She switches to kissing Mildred’s shoulder, lifting her arms to kiss along the still-twitching muscles there. Then she lifts Mildred’s right leg, kisses her knee, strokes along the calf and massages the muscle there before lowering it to the bed again. She does the same for Mildred’s left leg, and only then does she pull out of Mildred. 

“Break,” she commands, and Mildred nods weakly, throwing an arm over her eyes. 

“Lord, Gwendolyn,” Mildred groans as she hears Gwendolyn refilling the glass of water. “I don’t… you did this three more times?”

Gwendolyn pauses at the kitchen counter, and Mildred peeks out from under her arm. “Did I miss one?” Gwendolyn asks. 

“When I bit you,” Mildred says slowly, letting her arm fall away from her face. Gwendolyn lifts her hand to her own lips, chuckles slightly, lets out a soft _oh._ “Shit, I bit you, did I hurt you?”

“Oh, darling, no,” Gwendolyn says, waving her free hand. “I’m fine, really, I just didn’t realize. Drink.” 

Mildred sits up and takes the glass, takes a few small sips before she speaks again. “To be clear, I don’t want to stop.”

Gwendolyn’s eyes twinkle at her as she smirks. “No?”

Mildred shakes her head and takes another sip. “I would like to keep going. I’m just…” 

Gwendolyn leans forward, cups one cheek and kisses the other. “We have all night, darling, we don’t have to keep going right away.”

Mildred crosses her legs, feels the way they slide together, wiggles her hips slightly. “I don’t want to stop, though.” 

She blushes a little as the smile on Gwendolyn’s face darkens. “Stop that,” she mutters, hides behind another sip of water as Gwendolyn laughs. “Stop it, stop thinking about teasing me.” 

Gwendolyn snorts. Mildred hands her the glass and she drinks, then hands it back. “You sweet thing, I wasn’t thinking about that.”

Mildred hums a question around what she decides is her last sip for now. Gwendolyn squeezes her thigh. “I was thinking about how lucky I am, and which three ways I want to have you next.” 

Mildred swallows thickly. “What, uhm… what ways were you thinking?”

Gwendolyn runs her hands over the tops of Mildred’s thighs, digs her fingers in slightly. “How are your legs?” she asks. 

“Well I absolutely cannot stand,” Mildred says, and Gwendolyn grunts in response, ticks something off an imaginary list in the air. “Gwendolyn!” 

“You did ask,” Gwendolyn reminds her, patting at her thigh. “Can you support your weight?”

“If you don’t ask me to move,” Mildred grumbles. Gwendolyn nods. 

“Then I’d like to see you against the headboard again.”

Mildred sucks in a breath. “I cannot do last night again without hurting you,” she insists. 

Gwendolyn shakes her head. “No, darling, I’ll be behind you, if that’s alright.”

It dawns on Mildred what she’s asking, and she swallows again. “Oh.” Gwendolyn pets at her skin and waits patiently. “Uhm, yes, I think that would be…fine.” 

Gwendolyn snorts. Mildred takes a few deep breaths to steel herself. 

Truthfully, she very much wants this. She very much wants Gwendolyn to have her against the headboard, pin her to the bed, have whichever way with her she wants. 

But she pushes herself to her knees, turns around and goes to grip the headboard. Gwendolyn helps her, readjusts her hips gently, pushes her knees wider apart, smooths her hands over Mildred’s back. 

“I kept thinking,” she starts, presses a kiss to Mildred’s shoulder, “when you were above me, last night, how beautiful you looked.” Mildred whines as she presses a line of kisses down Mildred’s spine. “I wish you could see yourself, baby, how stunning you are like this, how delightful.” 

Mildred leans back towards her, feels the strain in her thighs. “Gwendolyn, please.”

“Please what, baby?”

“Stop teasing me,” she whines. Gwendolyn’s hands land at her hips, and she pushes Mildred forward with her own hips. “Gwendolyn, please, ple—“

Gwendolyn slides home and Mildred’s hands grip at the headboard, arms threatening to buckle. She leans back against Gwendolyn, cuts herself off with another high whine, and Gwendolyn hums sympathetically. She shuffles them both forward, mostly ignoring how Mildred gasps when they move. Mildred’s forehead touches the wall for a moment before she scrambles, folds her arms over the flat section between the two spirals, and rests her head on her arms. 

Gwendolyn pushes forward again, just enough to let her dust kisses over Mildred’s shoulders. She drags her lips over Mildred’s skin as she thrusts, whispers a “you’re so beautiful, so good for me,” and delights in the way Mildred shivers. 

She slips a hand over the front of Mildred’s hips, dips between her legs and rubs gently. 

“Oh, God, Gwen,” Mildred gasps, rocks back against her. “I c— fuck.”

Mildred really does most of the work, her body unable to stay still, and Gwendolyn rocks to meet her. Some other day, they’ll come back to this, she vows to herself, and then she can hold Mildred where she wants her and watch her fall apart. 

For now, she drapes herself over Mildred, braces herself against the wall with one hand and circles her clit with the other, their hips working in tandem. Mildred lets out near constant cries, ones that edge towards sobs. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs. 

“Gwen, I c-ca— oh—“ she pushes back against Gwendolyn, hard, and Gwendolyn holds her still a moment. “Goddammit, oh, Gwen, keep— I need—“ 

She releases Mildred’s hip and lets her jerk and thrash, feels her ribs expand rapidly, feels her teeter towards the edge of something more. 

She presses a kiss to Mildred’s shoulder, and Mildred jerks and sobs, and Gwendolyn needs to hear this one. 

So she bites down on Mildred’s shoulder, gathers a bit of flesh in her mouth and sucks. Mildred screams, her back arching for a moment, and then she’s sobbing and falling back towards Gwendolyn without any control. 

Gwendolyn catches her, pulls her upright, moves her hips in small back-and-forth motions as Mildred shakes above her. She keeps the hand at Mildred’s clit moving in steady, small circles, uses the other hand to hold Mildred’s chest still. 

Mildred fumbles at empty air for a moment, then wraps both hands around the arm across her torso. Gwendolyn is certain for a moment that she’ll tap twice with the way she’s thrashing, the sounds she’s making, but she grits her jaw and groans around it. She pulls at Gwendolyn’s arm until her hand is at Mildred’s throat. 

“Show me the taps,” Gwendolyn breathes in her ear. 

“I can’t,” Mildred gasps, shaking her head against Gwendolyn’s cheek. “I can’t—“ 

“Then I won’t.” 

Mildred practically screams in frustration, tries to kick one leg out. But Gwendolyn shushes her, strokes her fingers along Mildred’s neck, and Mildred takes a deep and shuddering breath. 

She taps twice at Gwendolyn’s arm, then pushes at her wrist. 

“There’s my girl,” Gwendolyn murmurs, places a kiss to her temple. She squeezes her hand and Mildred squeals, her hips jumping up, and Gwendolyn realizes that’s all it took.

“Holy shit, baby,” Gwendolyn rasps. “Oh my God.” 

She releases Mildred’s throat and Mildred gasps. She takes her hand away from Mildred’s clit, smooths it over her hip, presses her lips to the side of Mildred’s head. She shushes Mildred and waits for her breath to even out. 

“Kiss me, please,” Mildred begs, turns her head and leans back, scrambles for a second to find the back of Gwendolyn’s head. 

Gwendolyn leans into her. The angle is awkward, and it’s messy, but it makes Mildred focus on her breath a little more, slows down the way her body moves. 

Mildred’s neck begins to ache, and she breaks the kiss, leaning her head back against Gwendolyn’s shoulder. She’s still breathing a little fast for what Gwendolyn would like, but it’s better now. 

Gwendolyn lays her down, goes to pull out so she can turn Mildred over. 

“Don’t,” Mildred starts, her short nails scraping against Gwendolyn’s thigh. “Stay. Please. One more.”

“Color, baby,” Gwendolyn says cautiously. 

“Green. So green. Grass. Please. Please, I promise—“ 

Gwendolyn cuts her off, presses her body down with one hand and pushes her hips in with the other. Mildred groans, gathering the sheets in one hand and shoving her other in her mouth as if she needs to muffle the sound. 

Gwendolyn grabs that wrist quickly, pulls it away. “No.”

Mildred whines, arches back against her. 

“You can do something else with that hand.” 

A choking sound bobs in Mildred’s throat, but she knows exactly what Gwendolyn means. She slides that hand down her body, finds her clit and starts to circle it, hissing at the sound. She tugs the sheets in her fist towards her mouth. 

“Do I need to take care of that?” Gwendolyn rasps, and Mildred shudders, jerks into her own hand and then back towards Gwendolyn. She pulls the sheets closer, and she’s testing, and Gwendolyn loves her for it.

She grabs that wrist, holds her hips very still as she slowly brings Mildred’s arm behind her back. She braces herself above Mildred with one hand, leaves the other within tapping reach of Mildred’s fingers, just enough pressure to keep her from moving too much. 

Mildred whines. “Tell me,” Gwendolyn commands, and Mildred shudders. 

“I’m— ‘m so close, Gwen, I— ff— ngh!” 

She bucks up, away from her own fingers, and Gwendolyn coos sympathetically, leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “You can come any time, baby.”

“I don— don’t want it— to stop,” Mildred hiccups. 

Gwendolyn’s head spins a little at that. She should’ve predicted that, that at some point Mildred would get lost in the haze of sex, but she hadn’t expected it. 

“I won’t,” Gwendolyn promises. “I won’t ever stop. I love you, do you hear me?” She takes the hand at Mildred’s back, moves it gently so her hand is by her head. It’s her left hand, the one that now bears Gwendolyn’s ring, and she noses at Mildred’s hair. “Look. Look at your hand.” 

Mildred whines, turns her head, jerks again. 

“You see that?” She taps at the ring with her finger, keeps her hips as steady as she can around the emotion welling in her chest. Mildred nods, wordless noises coming from her mouth. “That’s a promise. I’m never going to stop. I love you, Mildred, I love you.”

Mildred cries out, and her hand twitches, and Gwendolyn threads their fingers together. It takes a second for her to process that Mildred’s hips are twitching too, that her thighs are shaking under Gwendolyn’s, that the sounds from her throat haven’t stopped. 

“That’s my girl,” she soothes, “so pretty for me.” Mildred squeezes her hand so tight she worries either of their hands might break. 

Eventually her sobs peter out, and she loosens her grip, and the sound of the still-crackling fire overtakes the sound of her breathing. 

Gwendolyn pushes herself up, lingers with her lips at the smooth skin of the dip between Mildred’s shoulder blades for a few moments. Then she pulls the strap out of her, pushes away and off the bed so she can take the damn harness off. 

Mildred spasms and gasps, lets out another low moan, somehow finds herself facing the ceiling. 

Gwendolyn tosses the harness somewhere— she doesn’t particularly care where, she’ll find it and clean it in the morning— and rushes back to bed, back to Mildred. 

She gathers Mildred in her arms, presses kisses to her cheeks, wipes away the tears that fell for a brief few moments. “Sweetheart,” she murmurs, “my darling girl, you did so well.”

Mildred whimpers, clings to her weakly, turns her face into Gwendolyn’s neck. She doesn’t speak for a fairly long amount of time, but Gwendolyn keeps talking to her, tells her how amazing she was, how strong, how proud Gwendolyn is of her for coming eight times. 

“Nine,” she croaks.

Gwendolyn’s eyebrows shoot up. “Nine?”

“When you…” Mildred makes a vague gesture away from herself. “I…again.”

“Oh, my love,” Gwendolyn breathes. She keeps her hands well away from Mildred’s hips and inner thighs, but lets them roam elsewhere. “Let’s get you showered off and warmed up, hmm?” 

“I think you broke me,” Mildred mutters, shivers slightly. “Don’ think I can move.” 

Gwendolyn chuckles, presses another kiss to her forehead. “Bath, then?”

Mildred nods. “Sleepy.”

“Bath, then sleep, my dear,” Gwendolyn agrees. “You poor thing.”

Mildred shakes her head. “Not poor. Very good. Jus’ sleepy. Jus’…” she trails off for a second, and Gwendolyn is afraid she’s passed out for a brief moment. “Jus’ love you.” 

“Oh,” Gwendolyn half-laughs in relief. “Oh, darling, I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How we feelin? 
> 
> Don't worry, Gwendolyn gets her a nice warm bath and takes very good care of her, as one might expect from THE Gwendolyn Briggs. 
> 
> The inscription on Mildred's ring is from the Book of Ruth, because Gwendolyn is that bitch, and also because that just...it fits them, okay?
> 
> Gwendolyn, when she's quoting E. E. Cummings, is quoting his poem _somewhere i have never traveled,gladly beyond_ which is one of my favorite poems about love ever. I sang a choral piece composed for it in college, and it was truly an earth-changing experience. You can read the poem [ here.](https://poets.org/poem/somewhere-i-have-never-travelledgladly-beyond)
> 
> They dance to the song "Till the End of Time" by Perry Como, which you can listen to [ here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xSJ-oT2ZBa0&ab_channel=trooper7h)
> 
> Merry almost Christmas, if you celebrate, and happy second night of Hanukkah if you celebrate that! Consider this my gift to you :) 
> 
> <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ladies welcome in the year 1951 with friends. The month of January draws to a darker close than it's open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Angst, Fluff, Guns, PTSD, Character Death, Murder
> 
> Hi!! Hello!! 
> 
> Again, the plot bunnies ran away with me for this one. As a heads up, there is straight up murder at the end of this chapter, so if that freaks you out, I recommend you stop reading after "Mildred dusts every day, and Gwendolyn takes to doing the crossword each morning."
> 
> I have the next two weeks off work, and I'm hoping to get a bunch of writing done in that time :) I forsee two more chapters here, and then this fic will be complete! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy :) <3

The year 1950 slips into 1951 the way orange sections peel away from one another; Mildred wears her new blue heels and pearls, and Gwendolyn wears her new green trousers, and when the clocks strikes on the first moment of January 1st, 1951, there are smiles in their kiss. When they part, they barely hear the roaring cheers of the women around them. 

Violet pulls at Mildred’s arm, rasping in a voice hoarse from half-screaming, half-singing all night, “Mija, niña, come with us?”

She grins. Months ago, Mildred would not have said yes. She would have asked where, she would have looked to Gwendolyn for the decision, she would have shrunk back within herself and pulled away. Tonight, she squeezes Violet’s hand, tugs Gwendolyn along with her, and asks, “Where’s Fernanda?”

Violet laughs. Elina grumbles. “Last I saw her she had a girl up against a wall.” 

Mildred tips her head back and laughs, only blaming the alcohol buzzing against and beneath her skin a little, relishes in the way Gwendolyn’s free hand finds the small of her back. “Shouldn’t we wait for her?” Gwendolyn asks as they move through the fray. 

“Wait for who?”

“Jesus, Fernanda!”

Fernanda laughs, lets Elina take her hand. It’s Fernanda who asks where they’re going. “Get in the car,” Elina responds, taking Fernanda by the hips and guiding her to the back seat. Violet joins Elina in the front of the car turns around over the back of the seat and grins at them, Fernanda settling between Mildred and Gwendolyn. 

Fernanda settles in, crossing her legs and stretching her arms out behind Gwendolyn and Mildred’s shoulders. She looks back and forth between them before her eyes widen and she sits up straight— she grabs for Mildred’s left hand and gasps. 

“Dio,” she says, then looks to Gwendolyn, realizes Gwendolyn has a ring on her left hand too. “¡Dio!” 

Gwendolyn laughs, and it makes Mildred laugh, and Violet grins back at them as Elina drives and glances in the mirror. “Oh,” Elina drawls, “take it easy on the good doctor.” 

Mildred tips to the side— how much champagne had she had?— and rests her forehead against Fernanda’s chin. “Thank you,” she whispers, and Fernanda makes a small, questioning sound. “I get to marry her because you— you—“ 

She breaks off, grinning past tears, and presses a kiss to the side of Fernanda’s face. She feels Fernanda’s cheek move against her and pulls back looks around to find Gwendolyn has leaned forward to kiss Fernanda’s cheek too. 

Fernanda makes another noise, this one a little more strangled, a little more emotional. “Basta,” she says, rolls her eyes with far too much drama to be sincere. Violet giggles, turns back around and lays her head on Elina’s shoulder. 

It’s not long before they pull up next to a cliff, and Violet hops out of the car, pulling her blouse out of her skirt. “Come on,” she calls, and Elina puts the car in park and emerges, starts unbuttoning her own shirt. 

“What are we doing?” Gwendolyn asks as she emerges from the car, lets Violet take her hand and pull her close to the edge. 

The cliff reminds Mildred of Lucia— except this cliff is closer to the water, and softer, not so jagged. The waves are gentler too, the water deeper in the night. Mildred can’t see how deep it is, and she goes to Gwendolyn’s side, gripping her hand. 

Voilet grins. “I do this all the time,” she says. “Completely safe, I promise.” She crosses a little _x_ over her heart, and the tightness in Mildred’s chest softens. 

When Violet is down to her brassiere and panties, she grins, then takes a few steps back from the cliff. “It’s just like flying,” she says, spreads her arms out. “See?”

And then she takes off running, and Mildred covers her mouth to muffle the little scream she lets out. 

Violet pushes off the side of the cliff, her arms extended above her head, whooping into the darkness. Her skin looks golden for just a moment, the headlights of Elina’s car lighting her up, before she slips into the moonlight and turns into a shooting star. She drops through the air in a spinning dive, her arms coming out to each side. 

Her feet hit the water first. She’s gone for a few seconds, and Gwendolyn peeks over the side of the cliff with wide, worried eyes. But then her face reappears, and she lifts an arm out of the water. “See?” she calls again, and Gwendolyn laughs. 

She starts unbuttoning her shirt, and Mildred stares at her. “Rocks?” Gwendolyn asks.

“Only close to the cliffside,” Elina responds, stepping out of her own trousers. “Don’t worry, muru,” Elina says to Mildred. “We come here all the time.”

Something blurs past them and Violet shrieks in delight.

Fernanda— down to her own brassiere and panties— has simply run off the side of the cliff, arms and legs still spinning in the air as she slowly arcs towards the water. She splashes in and Violet squeals as the spray of her impact splashes over her. “Mi Reina,” she calls, and Elina rolls her neck. 

“Coming,” Elina calls. She looks to Gwendolyn first, raises an eyebrow. 

“We’ll be behind you,” Gwendolyn says, already working on Mildred’s dress with one hand as she undoes her belt buckle with the other. 

Elina smirks, then walks to the edge of the cliff. 

“Mi Reina,” Violet calls with delight, “te quiero!” 

Elina spreads her arms in a wide gesture, then turns around and pushes herself off the cliff backwards. Mildred watches, while Gwendolyn tugs her dress off gently, as Elina spins in tight little circles through the air, until her body straightens out just before she hits the water. 

When Mildred turns to Gwendolyn, the older woman is already rid of all her outer wear. She holds her hands out to Mildred, and Mildred steps into them. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Gwendolyn murmurs. 

“I— you’ve done this before?” Mildred asks, head spinning a little from the drinks earlier in the night. 

“I dove off quite a few cliffs in college,” Gwendolyn shrugs. “This doesn’t seem like a bad spot. But if you’d rather not, we can always walk down the path they’ll take back up here, slip into the water there.” 

Mildred has gotten better at swimming, but she’s still not confident, not truly. And if the water is safe enough to dive into, that means she won’t be able to just stand in the water. But Gwendolyn— Gwendolyn will be there, and Gwendolyn won’t let her get hurt, and Gwendolyn is standing in front of her and smiling. 

“Just hold my hand,” Mildred says, swallowing slightly, but smiling.

“That’s my brave girl,” Gwendolyn murmurs, kisses her. “Take a deep breath when I say jump, then breathe out when you feel the water. Don’t cover your hand with your nose, and stick your legs out straight once we’re in the air. Okay?” 

Mildred nods. She squeezes Gwendolyn’s hand, walks back a few feet with her. “Just like flying?”

“Better,” Gwendolyn grins.

“Papi,” Violet yells, “¿Dónde?”

“Don’t let go,” Mildred asks on a breath, head thudding with her own heartbeat, and Gwendolyn grins. 

“Never. Now run!” 

She takes off, and Mildred uses the strength in her legs to catch up, and then Gwendolyn yells “jump!” and Violet whoops and Mildred gasps a breath and— 

The night sky unfolds before her, stars twinkling in a cloudless sky, moon full and radiant and pulling her away from the rocks. She can hear Gwendolyn screaming in joy, and she can feel the way the stars pulse with it, and she’s floating, she’s flying, and she gasps in another breath when she laughs the first one out. Gwendolyn looks to her with that glorious grin on her face, and she’s about to say “I love you” when she feels water on her toes and remembers to breathe out. 

Darkness envelops her, and she squeezes desperately at Gwendolyn’s hand, and then there are many hands on her, across her back and her hips and her thighs and her arms, and she’s gasping in that crisp, salty air. Violet screeches in delight and kisses her with a closed mouth, squeals “You did it!” and laughs so hard Mildred finds herself laughing too. 

Her body is electric, and the electricity catches in the current of the water, and Mildred wraps herself around Gwendolyn as Violet and Elina and Fernanda let her go. Fernanda says something about the water being unseasonably warm, and Elina quips back that they should be glad they won’t be catching their deaths that way. Violet calls “again, again!” and Gwendolyn raises an eyebrow in question.

It might be the champagne. It might be the adrenaline. It might be the fact that just for a moment, Mildred forgets everything about her own past, why they’re in Mexico in the first place, why she has a nearly-healed cut that needed stitches only a few short months ago on her right arm. But she grins, squeezes her arms around Gwendolyn’s shoulders, breathes out an “again,” before she kisses her. 

Gwendolyn swims them both to the shore, carries Mildred on her back up the rocks. Violet gets the same from Elina, and Fernanda jokingly complains that she doesn’t get the same treatment. “You like to do the carrying anyways,” Gwendolyn teases.

“That I do,” Fernanda winks back. 

Mildred runs off the cliff with Violet, screams the whole way down with her, flails in the water and laughs when Elina and Gwendolyn do a synchronized dive in after them. Fernanda starts to lecture them all about how dangerous this is until Violet starts blowing raspberries, at which point she launches herself into the air and lectures more until she hits the water. She chases Violet through the current and Violet screeches. 

The fourth time they jump, Mildred is on Gwendolyn’s back, stretches herself upright and reaches for the moon as Gwendolyn tips towards the water. Her thighs grip around Gwendolyn’s side as the world turns them upside down, until Gwendolyn twists them upright again and pulls Mildred’s arms under own just before the water seals around them. 

Coming face to face with the stars is addictive, and the sixth time, Mildred jumps by herself, not even waiting for anyone else to hit the water before her. She hears her friends call her name, laughs at the sky, closes her mouth and huffs out a breath when wetness brushes her toes. She feels everyone else hit the water more than she hears it— _one, one-two-three_ — and grins at Gwendolyn when she’s pulled from beneath the surface. 

“Brave, foolish girl,” Gwendolyn breathes, and Mildred kisses the worry from her lips and the trembling from her hands. 

They’re all still soaked when they eventually slip back into their clothes, but they’re too tired to wait. Elina insists she has to drive everyone home before she drops dead asleep. Mildred curls up in the back seat against Fernanda, whines when the doctor gets dropped off first at her charming little bungalow. “Your fiancee is a much better pillow,” Fernanda chuckles, “happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” Gwendolyn murmurs, kisses her cheeks before she returns to the car and pulls Mildred against her. 

Mildred sleeps until they’re back to their apartment and Gwendolyn kisses her forehead, murmurs something about showers and bed. She sleepily says goodbye to Elina and Violet, and she thinks she thanks Violet for cliff jumping. 

Gwendolyn pushes her into the shower, holds her under the warm stream and massages shampoo through her hair. She tries to do the same, and Gwendolyn chuckles and kisses her for it. 

There is, blessedly, no hangover in the morning. Gwendolyn declares they must go cliff jumping after every drunk outing, and Mildred rolls her eyes and tosses a book at her. 

The wedding, they decide, will be on the 21st of March, the Spring Equinox. It falls on a Wednesday, which makes Gwendolyn laugh.

“Woden’s day, or Odin,” she says, “the Norse Father-God. Or if we’re going the Roman way, Mercury, god of tricksters, travellers, and luck.” 

Mildred blinks and nods as if she understands. Elina and Violet insist that Gwendolyn and Mildred use their backyard to hold the ceremony, and make Fernanda promise to be in town and present. 

A lazy January morning finds Mildred waking for the second time that day, the bed empty, Gwendolyn’s humming drifting through gently rippling curtains. She rises and stretches, fumbles for the nearest robe, and moves to the kitchen. She makes herself a cup of coffee, adds cream and sugar while she lets the rest of the pot brew a moment longer; she pours this into a second cup and moves towards the curtains. 

Gwendolyn has a pad of paper over her crossed legs, one hand resting against her pursed lips as the other twirls a pen. Mildred watches for a moment, letting the curtains billow around her like affectionate friends, then steps forward. 

Gwendolyn looks up and smiles, turns the pad over and sets it face-down on the table to her right, places her pen on top. Mildred settles into her lap as her legs uncross, hands her a second cup of coffee with a soft “good morning.”

“Mmm,” Gwendolyn hums, “thank you.” She kisses Mildred’s cheek and Mildred chuckles slightly. “Did you get any more rest?” 

Mildred nods, tucks herself in against Gwendolyn’s neck and takes a sip of her own coffee. “I don’t know why I’ve been so tired these last two days.” 

Gwendolyn drinks for a moment. “You’re probably fighting off some low-level cold.” 

Mildred huffs. “I’m fine. I haven’t even been sniffly.” She proves herself wrong by sniffling immediately, glares at Gwendolyn when she chuckles. “Anyway. What are you working on?” 

“No peeking,” Gwendolyn scolds as she reaches for the pad of paper. Mildred furrows her brow. “I’m writing vows."

Mildred’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh? You’re… writing vows?”

“You cannot peek,” Gwendolyn says, though she smiles behind her cup. Mildred reaches for the pad and gets a gentle swat for it. “I just said!” 

Mildred huffs, leans back against Gwendolyn. “No fair,” she grumbles. “How am I supposed to write mine?” 

“By speaking from the heart,” Gwendolyn says, noses gently at her jaw. She’s quiet for a few moments before she speaks again, picking up her pen. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me your middle name.” 

Mildred pauses, stares at a slowly waving patch of frangipani flowers. She’s silent long enough that Gwendolyn grows a little worried, sets her coffee down and makes a questioning noise. “I don’t think I have one,” Mildred says finally. 

“Do we have your birth certificate with us? We could go check,” Gwendolyn says, squeezes Mildred’s waist lightly. 

“That’s falsified anyway,” Mildred mutters. “Doesn’t even have my birthday right.” 

Gwendolyn blinks. “It doesn’t? What does it say?” She sets her pen back down.

“December first.” 

Gwendolyn picks her coffee back up and sips through her frown. “Your birthday is September seventeenth.” 

Mildred shrugs. “Wishful thinking on Anna’s part, I suppose. It’s easier to buy a child one gift than two, so lump the two gift giving occasions together…” She drifts off and waves her hand in the air in a noncommittal gesture. Gwendolyn takes another sip as a storm takes over her face. “Not that there were any presents, but I suppose it’s the thought that counts.” 

Gwendolyn doesn’t respond for a moment, simply draining the rest of her coffee. When she does respond, it’s with a cheer that covers anger— anger that, by now, Mildred knows is not for her. “Well, luckily, I will soon have a third day on which to shower you with presents.” 

Mildred pushes at her shoulder and drains her own cup. “Stop that.” She can’t hide the smile in her tone. 

“Never.” 

She leans into Gwendolyn, noses at her jaw and sighs happily when Gwendolyn wraps both arms around her waist and squeezes. “But no, I don’t think I have a middle name. I…” she drifts off for a second, and Gwendolyn pulls her head back slightly to watch Mildred’s face. “I’m not even sure Ratched is my last name. I remember Anna repeating it every time I was placed with a new family, but I don’t… I don’t remember telling her that name.” 

“You can have mine.” 

Mildred finds herself baffled. “What?” 

“You can have mine,” Gwendolyn repeats. Mildred whines in confusion and Gwendolyn somehow manages to sigh fondly. “Middle name or last name, whichever you want. Take Elizabeth, take Briggs, take Maynard for all I care, but you can have mine.” 

“Could we even do that?” Mildred asks. “I— do women do that?” 

Gwendolyn smiles, lifts a hand to pet Mildred’s hair. “A record that’s been falsified once can be falsified again, I think. I’m sure we could find someone to do it. Maybe even Trevor. As for names— my mother was born without a middle name. It was assumed that, when she got married, she’d move her maiden name to her middle name, and take her husband’s last name.” 

Mildred leans back into Gwendolyn’s hand. “So she was Maria Blithe Maynard?” 

“She sure was.” 

“That’s a lovely name,” Mildred says around a smile. “So I could be…”

“Mildred Ratched Briggs. Or Mildred Briggs Ratched,” Gwendolyn says, and her voice has taken on a rather dreamy quality. She sounds the way Mildred feels— floaty, enamored. 

“Mildred Briggs Ratched, I think,” Mildred breathes. “Mildred Briggs, for short.” 

Gwendolyn smiles. She could take this moment to tell Mildred that isn’t how shortening one’s name works, or she could take this moment to bask in the idea that Mildred wants to take her name. 

She chooses the latter. She pulls Mildred closer, so her hip and side are flush against Gwendolyn’s front, so that she can turn her head and have Mildred’s lips right there. She kisses Mildred for a long, saccharine moment, tastes the coffee she’s just drunk, sweeter than it has any right to be. 

“I think that sounds perfectly lovely, Mildred Briggs Ratched.” 

Despite all their differences, Mildred cannot imagine having a wedding where Betsy Bucket is not present. She tells Gwendolyn this halfway through the second week of January, and Gwendolyn suggests calling her up and asking her to come down for the wedding. 

“I’m—“ Mildred hesitates, chews on her bottom lip for a moment. Gwendolyn tugs it free with her thumb and frowns. “I’m going to have to tell her about Louise.” 

“Ah,” Gwendolyn says, face softening. Her eyes cast downward for a moment. When she looks back to Mildred, there’s a storm in her eyes, and it’s got more lightning in it that usual. “She should know the whole story.” 

Mildred closes her eyes and shudders. 

She calls Betsy that afternoon, holds her breath as the phone rings and tries not to wonder if she somehow knows already. When Betsy picks up, she swallows around the burning in her throat. 

“How are you?”

“Mildred, you’ve asked that already.” 

Gwendolyn wraps her arms around Mildred’s waist and kisses her neck. “Have… have you been keeping up with Edmund?” Mildred asks. 

Gwendolyn’s arms are warm around her, grounding. She leans back into Gwendolyn, tries to even out her breath. Betsy takes a few moments to respond, and when she does, it’s hesitant, nervous. “I know one of his accomplices has been… remanded to an institution,” she says, and it’s a bit shaky. “The other has been found dead. So I suppose he’s alone.” 

“Yes,” Mildred responds, squeezing at Gwendolyn’s wrist with her free hand. Gwendolyn scratches at her side lightly. “He— he is alone.” 

“Mildred, what aren’t you saying?” 

Mildred chews on her bottom lip for a moment. “H-have any of the papers up there mentioned who his accomplices were?” 

“No, they— honestly, Mildred, what? Once Wilburn lost re-election, papers stopped watching the story so closely. It became someone else’s problem.” 

She can’t bring herself to respond— too much new information has been thrown at her, and she’s suddenly face-to-face with the reality that the rest of the world has moved on. Once again, Mildred Ratched is left behind, forced to linger in the past with all of her ghosts. 

There’s an ache that spreads across her chest and down to her left hip. 

“Mildred?”

“His accomplices— they were Charlotte and Louise.”

There’s a long moment of silence on the other end of the phone. Mildred’s legs begin to shake. 

It’s her turn to call out to her friend. “Betsy? Betsy, are you there?”

“I— I am so stupid.”

“No, Betsy— you couldn’t have known, how could you have known?” 

Betsy groans on the other end. “I should’ve. I should’ve known. She’d been pulling away. She quit at the hospital. She hadn’t called in days when I came to visit you— oh, Jesus, I’m a terrible friend.” 

Gwendolyn catches Mildred when her legs give out. They slide down the wall of the alcove together, and Mildred tries very hard not to imagine how the rough brick must be scratching Gwendolyn’s back. “You’re not a terrible friend, Betsy,” she hisses fiercely. 

“Where do they have her?” Betsy asks. “Is it— did they put her in San Luis? I’m sure I could transfer her, I just need to—“ 

“Betsy,” Mildred interrupts, her voice cracking. “Betsy, I’m so sorry.”

The crackling on the other end of the phone is awful. It feels like Mildred’s heart crackling apart. It feels like everything she’s ever known falling away. 

“Please don’t….” 

She drifts off, and Mildred swallows the bile rising in her throat. Gwendolyn kisses her shoulder, leaves her lips there, a quiet reassurance. 

“Louise is dead, Betsy. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“No,” Betsy starts, and it’s not quite a sob, but she’s well on her way. “No, she can’t be, she’s not dead, how could she be dead?” 

Mildred almost bites through her lip. “I’m so sorry, Betsy, she is. She’s gone.” 

Betsy nearly screams at her— it’s a wail, more like, and it’s so painful to hear, and it’s full of desperation and prayer. “How could you know?!” 

“I killed her. I killed Louise. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Betsy keens. Gwendolyn winces at the sound, presses her lips to Mildred’s shoulder again, holds her tighter. Mildred keeps the phone to her ear, keeps her hand as steady as possible, holds herself still. 

Betsy sobs a “Why?!” through the phone, and Mildred tells her. She tells Betsy about the letter, about leaving Gwendolyn, about trying to track Edmund herself. She tells her about the red strings, the gun she bought, the morning she confirmed Charlotte and Louise’s identities as Edmund’s accomplices. She tells Betsy about the morning in the forest, how she’d tried to convince Louise to stop, to go back.

She leaves out that Edmund had poisoned Louise against Betsy. 

She tells Betsy about the knife. She tells Betsy about her gun going off. She tells Betsy about trying to stop the bleeding, about holding Louise as she died. She tells Betsy about stumbling back to Gwendolyn, Fernanda stitching the wound closed. 

“Why?” Betsy repeats, and it’s softer now, a whimper without any accusation behind it. “Why would she—“ 

“She wasn’t Louise, not anymore,” Mildred says, wipes furiously at the tears spilling over her cheeks. “Oh, Betsy, I’m so sorry, I am, I am.” 

Betsy sobs in response. 

They stay on the phone until she calms, until Mildred is sure she isn’t going to do something foolish. Gwendolyn takes the phone from her, murmurs to Betsy. 

Mildred doesn’t hear it. She can’t really hear anything— she’s too far away, in that forest, a red slipknot coming loose from her hip as she pulls the trigger. Her head swims with the sound of it, the fire and the force. 

_You bitch, you shot me!_

“Mildred?”

She yanks her head back, turns it towards Gwendolyn’s voice. 

“Darling, are you with me? Can you hear me?”

“I— Mmm— I’m here,” she says, struggling at first, gripping at Gwendolyn’s knees. Gwendolyn rubs her hands over Mildred’s arms, and she realizes the phone is back on the hook. “I’m sorry, I— I got lost.” 

“You’re here now,” Gwendolyn utters. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” 

“But Betsy—“ 

“Is okay, too,” Gwendolyn interrupts. “She will be. Not yet, not yet, but she will be.” 

“I hurt her.” 

It’s a sob, it’s a punishment, and Gwendolyn shakes her head enough that Mildred feels it. “You defended yourself, darling. She’d never have forgiven herself if you got hurt. Especially if it had been Louise’s doing.” 

She doesn’t say “fault.” She knows better than that, knows Charlotte and Louise were just Edmund’s puppets. That to some extent, she and Betsy and Mildred are too. That until this ends, until Edmund is gone, they will all be marionettes on display. 

Gwendolyn kisses the side of Mildred’s head, and Mildred sags against her. They stay on the floor until Mildred begins to shiver, and then Gwendolyn lifts her, carries her to a chair by the fireplace. She wraps Mildred in the new blanket, still tinged with the smell of the holidays, and holds a hand to her chest when she whines at the loss of contact. She sets a fire, lifts Mildred again, and holds her close. 

“When can we see her?” Mildred asks after a long, lonely moment. 

Gwendolyn kisses her forehead. “I’ll call again tomorrow.” 

It takes a week of daily calls before Gwendolyn decides it’s time to invite Betsy to the wedding. Mildred panics, says she absolutely cannot stay in these apartments with them again. It won’t be safe, Edmund will know she’s here, and he’ll blame Betsy for Louise’s death, go after Betsy again. 

“She can stay with me,” Fernanda offers casually over breakfast one morning. “I’m fairly well versed in the stages of grief.” 

Mildred shudders, and Gwendolyn squeezes her hand. “Would you? That would be very kind of you.” 

Fernanda rolls her eyes. “She’s a friend of a bride. I’m more than happy to help.”

Mildred feels as if she’s wandering around in a daze. The only times she feels real are when Gwendolyn is pressed against her, pulling her close, pushing or tugging or biting. She asks for pain until Gwendolyn relents, and keeps asking until she refuses. She’s too quiet until she’s too loud, and neither extreme brings her any relief. 

Gwendolyn doesn’t fuss over her, not in the way she’d like to. Mildred hasn’t pushed her away, so there isn’t much of a fight to put up there. She holds Mildred when Mildred asks to be held, shows her as much love as she can. She insists Mildred eat at least twice a day. She tries to carry on and hopes that Mildred will find her way back if she keeps sending out signals. 

As January begins to draw to a close, Gwendolyn suggests they take down the tree. Mildred removes the ornaments and packs them away with care, and Gwendolyn watches with a small amount of concern as her nose starts to twitch. 

“Darling,” she starts slowly as she pulls some tinsel loose, “are you quite alright?” 

“I’m fine,” Mildred says, rubs at her nose with the flat of one finger. “Perfectly fine.”

Gwendolyn makes a noncommittal noise and hands her the tinsel. She starts to move the tree, noticing the little needles falling to the floor in various shades of greenish gray. 

Mildred sneezes. 

“Bless you,” Gwendolyn says immediately, pauses and peeks around the tree. Mildred still has her eyes closed, mouth slightly opened, tinsel held out to the side. “Mildred?” 

She sneezes again, twice, in rapid succession. 

“Lord, sweetheart,” Gwendolyn says, fights a smile. “Bless you!” 

“Thank you,” Mildred grumbles, sniffs twice. “Don’t know what’s come over me.” 

“This tree has been sitting here a long time,” Gwendolyn half-grunts as she inches the tree towards the door. “There could be a decent amount of dust built up.” 

Mildred closes the box of decorations and frowns. “I dust every week and don’t have this reaction.” 

Gwendolyn sets the tree down and shrugs. “I don’t know, my dear, just a thought.”

Mildred sneezes three more times from where she’s storing the decorations. She comes out of the alcove with the side of her thumb pressed to her still-twitching nose. “Yes, bless me,” she mutters, waves her hand at Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn smiles wryly. 

She bangs her head against the top of the tree when they open the doors to take it outside, and Gwendolyn coos at her, runs her fingers over where Mildred’s forehead has light needle-scratches. She sneezes four more times when they set the tree back down in the spot the apartment complex has reserved for old Christmas trees, and that’s when it occurs to Gwendolyn— 

“Sweetheart, I think you might be allergic to this tree.”

Mildred looks horrified, then speeds off back towards the apartment. “That couldn’t be possible,” she shoots over her shoulder. 

Gwendolyn chases after her. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Mildred, goodness!” 

“I’m not allergic to _Christmas trees_ ,” Mildred insists. She steps closer to where the tree had been and sneezes twice more. 

“Bless you,” Gwendolyn says, rubbing at her temples with her middle finger and thumb while wrapping her hand around her face. “Maybe not while they’re alive, but you’re certainly having some difficulty now.” 

“I’m fi—“ she interrupts herself with four more sneezes, gasps in a breath at the end. Gwendolyn moves to her side instantly. “I’m fine!” 

She doesn’t push Gwendolyn’s hands away, though, and Gwendolyn holds her there for a few moments. “Darling,” Gwendolyn croons, “you were fine the whole time we had it up. Maybe it is just the dust.” 

Mildred nods. She moves to grab a broom, but Gwendolyn doesn’t quite let her go, and she lets out a small “oof!” when she thumps back against Gwendolyn’s chest. She accepts the kiss to her cheek with a smaller sniffle, squeezes Gwendolyn’s arms against her. 

“I’m not allergic to your Christmas trees,” Mildred insists. 

Gwendolyn lets her go, watches her grab a broom and start sweeping after where they’d just dragged the tree out. “My Christmas tree?” 

Mildred nods. She sweeps. Her nose twitches. 

Gwendolyn waits expectantly. 

The dust and needles sweep up towards her nose, drifting through the air despite her best efforts. She lasts another few moments before she sneezes the first time. 

“Ble—“ 

Another sneeze, and Mildred winces when she breathes in. That launches another sneeze, which has her gripping the side of the broom and rocking slightly. The next sneeze sounds like it truly hurts, and Gwendolyn pulls her away from the offending dust and fir needles over the next two sneezes. 

“Sweetness, you are definitely allergic to whatever that tree left behind,” she murmurs, petting down Mildred’s sides as the poor woman wheezes. 

“I’m—“ she holds her nose shut for a few moments. Her sides spasm, and she lets out a low whine. “I can’t be.”

Gwendolyn furrows her brow and pulls back from Mildred. “Why ever not?” 

Mildred bites at her lip, lets it go before she sneezes— probably saving them both a trip to the emergency room. “Bless you,” Gwendolyn murmurs, tilts her face up. “What’s wrong, darling?” 

Her eyes have welled up, sparkling sadly in the light. “It’ll ruin Christmas.”

Gwendolyn finds herself baffled. “It— what?” She blinks through her confusion, sweeping her thumbs over Mildred’s cheeks, her eyebrows turned up in the center. “Mildred, you— why would that ruin Christmas?” 

Mildred sniffles again and Gwendolyn braces herself for a sneeze. It doesn’t come. She casts her eyes downwards until Gwendolyn ducks her own head, forces Mildred to meet her eyes. 

“You love Christmas, and Christmas trees, and if I’m allergic I’m making you choose, and I’m ruining _another_ thing, and I’m so selfish!” 

Gwendolyn knows her expression is probably not helpful. Her eyes have gone wide, her mouth dropped open. Her eyebrows have climbed up towards her hairline, and she blinks rapidly a few times before she snaps her own mouth shut. 

Mildred stares up at her with eyes that are swimming with tears, and a face so open it could break her apart, and she can hardly bear to look. 

She pulls Mildred to her instead. Her voice goes a little rough, a little sharp. “You are not selfish, Mildred.” Mildred shakes her head, and Gwendolyn wraps a hand around the back of her neck to hold Mildred still against her chest. “And you haven’t ruined Christmas— stop it— nor will you. You were _fine_ the whole time the tree was up. You haven’t ruined anything, my love.” 

Mildred lets loose a sob. It reverberates through Gwendolyn, squeezes her heart in her chest in a cruel fist. Mildred grips at her, and she smooths her free hand over Mildred’s back. 

This hasn’t been about the tree at all. 

“Mildred, sweetheart,” Gwendolyn croons, and another sob rips through Mildred. She clutches at Gwendolyn, thunks her head against Gwendolyn’s shoulder. 

“I’m _awful_.”

“Mildred!” Gwendolyn pulls her back, grabs her face, searches over her puffy, tear-stained expression. “You are not awful, Mildred, you’re not.” 

Mildred shakes her head, casts her eyes away and chews on her lip for a moment before looking back up at Gwendolyn. “I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I killed—“ 

“Because she tried to kill you!” 

Mildred jumps slightly, fingers twitching against Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn can feel her throat constricting around those words, closing in their wake, forcing the air out of her lungs. 

“She tried to kill you,” she repeats. “And I— Mildred—“ 

Mildred shakes her head and pulls Gwendolyn closer, threads her hand through Gwendolyn’s hair and pushes until Gwendolyn’s forehead is against her shoulder. Her breathing is still uneven, hiccupped in and sobbed out, and Gwendolyn can’t shake the vice grip the world has wrapped around her. 

They spend a long moment this way, gripping at each other, fear and self-hatred and grief mixed together. Gwendolyn’s voice still hasn’t returned to normal, too reedy and wobbly for her own liking, but she’s the first to speak. 

“Let’s get this cleaned up, and then we’re taking a long shower. A hot one.”

Mildred nods weakly, but whines when Gwendolyn goes to move. Gwendolyn indulges in another few moments like this. 

Mildred tries to muffle a sneeze against Gwendolyn’s shirt, then makes a horrified noise at herself. 

“Come on.”

Gwendolyn retrieves the broom from where it had fallen, sends Mildred to open all the doors to their back patio and the window in their kitchen. She insists Mildred stay in the kitchen as she sweeps, suggests she tidy in there, though the place hardly needs it. 

When Gwendolyn has finished, taking the last of the dust and needles out to the farthest corner of the patio, she dumps the offending pile into a small dip in the soil. She covers it up with mulch, then uses the little watering can beneath their outdoor table to wet it down. A little rain and the whole thing will be forgotten. 

She goes back inside to find Mildred furiously scrubbing at a pot she’s nearly certain is clean, tears rolling down her cheeks, stubbornly sniffing and wiping her nose on the back of her wrist. 

“Mildred,” Gwendolyn murmurs, leaning against the doorframe, “just… let that soak.” 

“I’m fine,” Mildred insists, sniffles again. “I’m fine.” 

“You’re not.” Mildred’s head snaps back up and she turns to stare at Gwendolyn. “And that’s okay.” Gwendolyn shrugs. “I’m not either.”

Mildred stares at her. It would be statuesque, but she has to sniffle around the snot threatening to run out of her nose. 

“Would you please leave that and come here?”

It’s softer than Gwendolyn would like it to be, but Mildred drops the pot in the sink, barely turns the water off before she’s pressing Gwendolyn's back against the doorframe and burrowing into her. Gwendolyn wraps her up immediately, breathing out a sigh of relief. 

There’s the sound of soft chirps fluttering in through their window, the sweet call of the butcherbird searching for their mate. Gwendolyn buries her nose in Mildred’s hair as the shrike continues to sing. 

“I’m sorry,” Mildred sobs, and the butcherbird chirps an echo. Gwendolyn shakes her head back and forth slowly. “I’m sorry,” she repeats, “I’ve been such— so wrapped up in— I’ve been so selfish and distant—“ 

“Would you stop with that?” Gwendolyn pleads. “You’re here. You’re here with me, and that’s what I care about, you’re safe.”

There’s a broken little noise that comes from Mildred. The butcherbird outside their window warbles. 

Then Mildred gasps in a tiny breath of air, slaps her hand over her mouth and nose, and sneezes violently. “Oh, God,” she utters, mortified, and pushes off Gwendolyn and towards the bathroom, hand still in place. 

Gwendolyn closes her eyes for a moment and huffs out a breath. The bathroom door shuts and the sound of water starts up behind it, and Gwendolyn rolls her eyes as she moves towards it. “We should shower all this dust off,” she calls, leaning against the bathroom door as she unbuttons her shirt and tugs it free from her trousers. 

She hears the sound of Mildred blowing her nose, doesn’t bother to fight the smile that comes to her face. “I’m… I’ll be out in a minute,” Mildred says. 

“Or I could come in there,” Gwendolyn returns, pushing lightly at the door. She shucks off her shirt and sticks a hand in. “Hand me your clothes, darling.” 

There’s a moment of silence, but the sink stops running, and there’s rustling fabric, and soon enough Gwendolyn is holding Mildred’s clothes from the day. “Start up the shower and I’ll be right back.”

She deposits both Mildred’s clothes and her own in a basket that sits by their little washing machine, makes a note to do the laundry herself rather than let Mildred send herself into another sneezing fit. She knocks at the door before pushing it open, waiting for Mildred’s “Come in.” 

It’s smaller than she would like, but Mildred is standing in the tub, curtain held back slightly for Gwendolyn. 

Gwendolyn undoes the few pins in her hair, sets them on their bathroom counter, and takes the hand Mildred holds out as she steps into the shower. 

“Hi there, sweetness.” She takes Mildred’s face in her hands, tilts it up towards her as the water pelts her shoulders. 

Mildred’s eyes and nose are red. Her cheeks are streaked with little white lines, and her skin is blotchy between pink and cream. Her chin still trembles a little, and her eyes are so dark and sad that it tears at Gwendolyn’s chest. 

She presses a kiss to her forehead. “Let’s get all this washed off, hmm?”

Mildred nods, then lets her forehead fall to Gwendolyn’s collarbone. She’s pliable, but otherwise still, as Gwendolyn lathers shampoo through her hair, combs conditioner into it, soaps up her hands and runs them over Mildred’s aching muscles. Mildred relaxes in increments, face and then neck and then shoulders. 

“You,” she mumbles eventually, fingers loosely stroking at Gwendolyn’s back.

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

Mildred tips her head back, and it seems to weigh heavily on her neck, and Gwendolyn instinctively brings her hand up to support her head. “Shower too.”

Gwendolyn hums, manages to hide most of her amusement behind the fondness of her own expression. She gently pushes Mildred’s head back to her chest and reaches for the shampoo. 

Gwendolyn steps out of the shower and convinces Mildred to blow her nose while she gets their bed ready. She can hear the faint echoes as she makes some tea— mint, to help with her sinuses— and brings Mildred’s new favourite blanket to the bed. She sets out some of her own pajamas, in case Mildred wants to be wrapped up in fabric, finishes towelling herself off and returns to the bathroom. 

“Alright in there?” she asks as she pushes the door open.

The water has been shut off, and Mildred is wrapped up in a towel, leaning against the far corner of the bathroom wall with her eyes closed. 

“Oh, Mildred,” Gwendolyn breathes, and her eyes flutter open as she sniffles. 

“‘M okay,” Mildred slurs, “just tired.”

“I know you are,” Gwendolyn coos. “Come here, sweetheart, my darling.”

She hangs her own towel, smiles at Mildred when she pushes herself off the wall and lurches towards Gwendolyn. She dries Mildred off, making sure to be gentle with her hair so she doesn’t jostle her head too strongly. “Do you want to get dressed?”

Mildred turns her head from side to side. “Just want to sleep.” She falls against Gwendolyn again, and Gwendolyn sways them back and forth for a few moments. “With you,” she adds. 

“Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”

Mildred hums, a little more satisfied, and lifts her head just a bit to rest her nose against the crook of Gwendolyn’s neck. She breathes deeply— there’s only a bit of a whistle behind the noise, which is a good sign. 

“Do you need to be carried?”

She grunts an affirmative, and Gwendolyn is quick to scoop her up and off the floor, bring her to bed. She tucks her in to the blankets, hands her the cup of tea with a gentle but firm “drink.” She folds her pajamas back up and returns them to the wardrobe, and when she hears a hiccuped breath against liquid, she spins around and moves back to the bed. “Are you alright?”

Mildred waves her hand in the air. “Swallowed wrong,” she assures Gwendolyn, lets her hand fall to Gwendolyn’s arm. “Come to bed?”

Gwendolyn is all too happy to oblige. She sets herself up against the headboard, and Mildred drapes herself across Gwendolyn’s lap, sips gingerly at her tea. Gwendolyn wraps her arms around Mildred, folds herself over the younger woman, presses a kiss to her shoulder. 

She breathes Mildred in, and it feels like she’d forgotten how to breathe until this moment. 

Mildred’s voice is so small, so quiet, when she finally speaks. “I’m so tired, Gwendolyn.”

“I know.” 

It’s not something she can fix, either. It’s not that Mildred isn’t sleeping well— some nights she doesn’t, but many nights she does— or that she’s doing anything physically straining. It’s the weight of the world on her shoulders; the weight of too many deaths by her hand or the hands that extend from her, the weight of the hurt she tries to carry for others. It’s carrying all this, and still looking over her shoulder at every moment, trying to convince herself that it won’t all be taken from her by a man who once called himself her brother. 

“You’re safe, my love. I’ve got you tonight.” 

“Please,” Mildred whispers, one hand tight against Gwendolyn’s thigh. “I can’t, please.” 

Gwendolyn shakes her head, holds Mildred’s face to her chest, kisses the crown of her hair. “Then let me. I’m here, Mildred, I’ve got us. You trained me yourself, hmm?” Mildred whines. “Finish your tea, darling.”

Mildred does, starts to push herself up and out of bed, protesting weakly about brushed teeth. 

“We’ll get there in the morning, or whenever we wake up again,” Gwendolyn insists. “Stay here.”

“The doors…” 

She drifts off, and Gwendolyn presses a kiss to her forehead, presses her down against the sheets. 

Mildred watches as Gwendolyn moves about their apartment, latches doors closed and pulls windows shut. She’d have liked to keep the windows and back doors open, really, to let the dust air out, but that can wait until the morning. Their home becomes quiet as the sounds of the night are shut out. 

Gwendolyn takes an extra moment to move the gun on the mantlepiece to her bedside table, keeps the bullets next to the chamber rather than in them. Then she crawls back under the blankets and opens her arms to Mildred. 

Mildred scoots into her immediately, nuzzles into the crook of Gwendolyn’s neck, breathes in a deep, shuddering breath. Gwendolyn squeezes her arms around the exhausted, likely already sore, woman, tangles their legs together. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs, settles them both back against the pillows. 

Mildred lets out a heaving sob, grips at her back, makes a noise Gwendolyn thinks might have been intended as a plea. She shushes her, turns her head to press a kiss to her temple. “You’re alright. Let it go. Let me carry it.”

To her credit, Mildred does. Perhaps it’s because she’s too tired to do otherwise. Perhaps it’s because she finally trusts Gwendolyn telling her she doesn’t have to do this alone. Perhaps it’s because she feels safe, feels guarded. 

The butcherbird shrieks, wings flapping in the distance, and Mildred’s hands curl against Gwendolyn’s skin. The top of her ring brushes against Gwendolyn’s skin, and it reminds Gwendolyn— 

“I love you, Mildred.”

Mildred sucks in a breath through her teeth, and the force of it pulls some of the tears that have pooled against Gwendolyn’s skin loose from their place. Mildred pushes her face closer against Gwendolyn’s neck and exhales shakily, takes another breath. “I l—“ 

She gets stuck on the “L” of love, and Gwendolyn smooths her hands over Mildred’s back. “I know,” Gwendolyn soothes. “I know. Rest, darling.” 

Mildred struggles for a few more moments before giving in. She sobs until she hasn’t the energy for sobbing anymore, and Gwendolyn holds her close, tucks the blankets around them to keep her warm. Eventually Mildred drifts to sleep, and her tears dry against Gwendolyn’s skin, and only then does Gwendolyn allow her own eyes to close. 

When Mildred wakes in the morning, she’s outside. She startles upright in her chair, pulling the blanket already wrapped around her a bit tighter. Gwendolyn emerges from fluttering white curtains, already dressed in her green trousers— she’s worn them at least once a week since Christmas— and a white shirt. She smiles at Mildred and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Good morning, darling.”

“Morning?”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Gwendolyn says, plucks her sunhat off the table and places it on Mildred’s head. “You needed the rest.” 

Some say that the way one spends their last moments of the year determines how the next year will be spent. For a while, this is true for Mildred and Gwendolyn. The safety of Gwendolyn’s arms surround Mildred, keep her warm and loved, and anxiety and fear retreat like drops of water down a windowpane. 

These days do not stretch into the end of January; these days are a fairytale, and cannot survive when the dragons come calling. 

The last week of January feels like a storm, though the skies remain clear. Mildred dusts every day, and Gwendolyn takes to doing the crossword each morning. 

They’ve already dressed for the day when Gwendolyn returns inside with a half-completed crossword puzzle, about to ask Mildred about an alternate for the word “indelible.” Mildred ducks around the bathroom door to respond to her name being called when there’s a knock on the door. 

Both women freeze. “Who is it?” Gwendolyn calls, ever the first to recover. 

“Gwendolyn, it’s me,” comes a vaguely reedy voice, loose around the edges, lazy in his enunciation. Gwendolyn stiffens. 

“One moment, Governor,” she responds, holds a hand out to a still-frozen Mildred. 

Mildred’s head spins. 

She flexes her hands a few times as Gwendolyn strides towards the door. She’d like to tell her to wait, but her voice is frozen in her throat— just as her feet are frozen to the floor, and her heart has frozen in her chest. 

The last time she had seen Governor Wilburn, the man had insulted Gwendolyn, threatened her brother, and spoke in hushed tones about sapphics. What did he want? Had he come to cash in on the knowledge he held over them? Had he found Edmund, led him to her home? 

There are voices that don’t reach her ears. All she can hear now is her own heartbeat and the shrieking of a mouse as a shrike picks it off. 

Gwendolyn hasn’t yelled for her, but that could mean many things; Gwendolyn is brave, confident in her ability to diffuse difficult situations, willing to walk into gunfire if it saves others. Gwendolyn could die for Mildred without uttering a single noise. 

The thought unmoors Mildred, and she lurches towards her bedside table, where she kneels, where her trembling fingers find the gun she’s taken to keeping there. She slips seven bullets into the magazine, fumbles as she sets it in line, then clicks the magazine into the receiver as quietly as she can. She tips the hammer back, places the heel of her hand straight against the slide, pulls the slide back and then lets it go. 

It snaps into place with a loud _crack_ and Gwendolyn’s head turns. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, then turns her head back to Wilburn. “No, you may not come in. Whatever you’d like to discuss can be done right here.” 

“Gwenny, don’t be ridiculous,” Wilburn drawls. He’s attempting to be charming, but it’s sickening, it makes Mildred feel like there’s fog clinging to her skin, making her cold and clammy and confused. She pushes herself up and wraps both hands around the grip of the gun, pointing the barrel at the ground and slowly making her way towards their wardrobe. 

Wilburn changes tactics when Gwendolyn doesn’t respond. “I was sad to hear that you divorced your husband, though I suppose not surprised.” He tries to duck his head into their apartment, and Mildred freezes in place. 

“What are you doing here, Governor?” 

Gwendolyn sounds exasperated, angry. She doesn’t sound panicked, but that could mean anything; Gwendolyn does not bow to fear. 

“Oh, I’m not Governor anymore,” Wilburn sneers. “Lost the re-election after Edmund Tolleson escaped.” 

Mildred stiffens, stops where she is, her hands squeezing against the grip. She’s thankful she never developed the habit of keeping her fingers on the trigger, or she’d be wasting a bullet. 

“How unfortunate.” 

Gwendolyn’s voice is so steady, so strong, that it almost loosens Mildred’s posture. She sounds too confident to be faced with anything truly heinous. 

“You know, I’d always wondered—“ 

“That’s enough,” Gwendolyn snaps, hand clapping around the side of the door she’d propped open to speak to Wilburn. Mildred can see his fingers flat against the wood, too close to Gwendolyn for her own comfort. She raises the gun slightly— if it goes off now, it’ll shoot the bed, which won’t be the worst thing in the world. 

Memories come back to Mildred unbidden: hot stage lights, familiar fingers in places they don’t belong, beady eyes staring at her shame, sneers and snickers from all around her. 

“Gwendolyn, you really do look fantastic.” 

There’s a sharp, ringing sound, flesh against flesh, and Mildred moves without thinking. 

There’s a gasp, and then nothing but ringing in her ears for a long few moments, smoke curling before her vision. The casing of the bullet she’d shot tumbles past her shoulder in slow motion. 

“Mildred!” 

She blinks, clearing the smoke-driven tears from her eyes. She lowers the gun and finds Gwendolyn before her, one hand stretched towards her shoulder, the other reaching for the gun. Mildred steps back, checks to make sure the gun won’t go off, sets it on the mantlepiece before turning back to Gwendolyn. 

The older woman is breathing heavily, eyes wide, but there are no marks on her face. Mildred frames her cheek with one hand and starts running her other hand over Gwendolyn’s body. “Are you alright? Where did he— did he hurt you? Are you alright?” 

Gwendolyn grabs both her arms and holds her still. “He didn’t touch me, Mildred. Mildred. Mildred, look at me.” 

Mildred’s eyes stop roving over Gwendolyn, looking for any sign of injury or insult. She snaps her eyes to Gwendolyn’s. 

She doesn’t find fear in her eyes. She finds worry, the emotion making Gwendolyn’s eyes bluer than they ought to be, and she finds love. She finds a steady presence, the certainty that the tide will come in just as it goes out every day. 

“I’m alright, Mildred,” she murmurs, and Mildred grips at her waist to pull her close, crushes their lips together before Gwendolyn can say anything else. 

Gwendolyn sucks a breath in through her nose, tightens her fingers against Mildred’s arms before she lets go and wraps her arms around Mildred’s shoulders. She hugs Mildred close by the spot between her shoulder blades and the back of her neck, squeezes gently. Then she tugs Mildred away. 

“Are you alright?” she asks softly.

Mildred nods, tips herself forward to thunk their foreheads together. “I thought—“ 

It seems to hit Gwendolyn, then. She sucks in another breath, this time through her teeth, and pulls Mildred back. “Oh, shit.” 

They move together to the doorway. Wilburn lies on his back, eyes open, body still. 

“Oh, shit,” Gwendolyn repeats. Mildred shivers for a moment. 

A moment passes before Mildred processes what has happened. She’s shot and killed the former governor of California, in defense of her fiancee, and now he lies still in their doorway. 

She starts to tremble, and Gwendolyn wraps an arm around her waist to pull her close. “Well, we can’t leave him here.” 

Mildred turns and shoves her face into Gwendolyn’s neck. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, and Gwendolyn presses a kiss to the crown of her head. 

“Come now, let’s take care of this.” 

Wilburn is heavier than he looks, and they struggle with him despite Gwendolyn’s strength. They have to pause several times, and Mildred wants to grab Gwendolyn’s hand and drive off each time. Leave everything, even the guns, behind. Start fresh. She could go back to being a nurse. She could make enough money for Gwendolyn to stay at home, if she wanted. 

But Gwendolyn wouldn’t want that, and Mildred can’t bear to unseat Gwendolyn again when they are so close to being happy. 

“Tell me where you left Louise,” Gwendolyn says when she settles herself behind the wheel. Her eyes are hardened when she looks at Mildred, but her hands shake ever so slightly. Mildred reaches out for one, half afraid Gwendolyn will pull away, finds herself nearly sobbing with relief when Gwendolyn strokes across her knuckles with her thumb. 

They drive past the forest, past the Sapphic bar, past where Elina and Violet live. They drive for a long time before Gwendolyn asks, “Can you tell me what happened there?” 

Mildred leaves her hand on Gwendolyn’s thigh, swallows thickly. “I thought he was going to hurt you.”

“Going to?”

“When I loaded the gun.” Gwendolyn glances at her, licks her lips and then presses them together. “And then I thought he had.” 

“I’m alright,” Gwendolyn reminds her, slides one hand from the wheel to squeeze Mildred’s. “Why…what made you think he had?” 

Mildred winces, worries at her bottom lip with her teeth, covers Gwendolyn’s hand in hers with her free one. She holds it like a precious bird, cradles it and strokes it gently. “He… he kept pushing, and I— I thought, at first, he might have someone else with him.”

Gwendolyn nods, then pulls off the road. 

They haven’t passed any other cars in miles. Mildred has no idea where they are, and she isn’t sure Gwendolyn knows either. She’s never been this far from their home. Gwendolyn turns to her in the car, covers Mildred’s hands with her left hand. 

Her ring glistens in the early afternoon light, and Mildred feels tears stinging at the back of her eyes. What has she done to this woman? Who has she made Gwendolyn? 

“I can take care of this,” she mutters. 

“You’re not doing this alone,” Gwendolyn responds. “Besides, I’m not sure you could actually pull that body out of the trunk yourself.” 

It does take both of them, and they manage to push and kick him to the edge of cliff they’ve parked by. Mildred can’t bear to look at his face. 

“We’ll roll him over the cliff,” Gwendolyn decides. “It’s a long way down, and I doubt anyone dives off this one.” She peeks over the side and grimaces. “Too many rocks at the bottom.” 

Her hands are still shaking. Mildred feels the lump in her throat grow. Her stomach turns in on her, and she turns away for a moment to breathe in through her nose so she doesn’t hurl. 

Gwendolyn doesn’t ask if she’d like to say anything. She simply takes Mildred’s hand in hers, grunting softly as she pushes at Wilburn’s body with her foot. Mildred helps her immediately, and the two of them make quick work of it. 

Gwendolyn doesn’t watch his body fall. Mildred does. It spins slightly, has the audacity to bounce off the side of the cliff and cause a huge splash as it hits the water. 

She takes Gwendolyn’s hand and they return to the car. Mildred shuts the trunk, makes a note to herself to scrub the trunk clean tomorrow. Gwendolyn drives home in relative silence, clearly thinking something over, and Mildred can’t bring herself to ask. 

What if she’s regretting all this? What if Mildred has finally crossed the line, become too much for Gwendolyn’s forgiving heart? 

Gwendolyn parks, but doesn’t move to leave the car. She stares at the center of the steering wheel instead, brow furrowed and frown deep. Just as Mildred is afraid she’s going to burst under the pressure, Gwendolyn opens her mouth. “He looked like them, didn’t he?” 

Mildred closes her eyes, sucks her bottom lip in between her teeth, prays for the moment to pass. It doesn’t. 

“Yes.” 

Gwendolyn leaves her seat, opening and closing the car door with soft clicks. Mildred keeps her eyes closed. She jumps slightly when her own door opens, stares at the hand she finds in front of her. “Let’s go inside,” Gwendolyn murmurs gently, and after everything, Mildred’s throat closes and stings. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s go in.”

She takes Gwendolyn’s hand. She lets Gwendolyn guide her inside, back to the bathroom, where Gwendolyn strips them both down and scrubs at their skin with a soapy washcloth. Mildred feels like she might break under the tenderness of it, under the care behind Gwendolyn’s darkened eyes. She does feel a piece of herself break off when Gwendolyn holds her face in her warm hands and murmurs “I love you” with enough ferocity that anyone else would think it was a threat. 

She falls into Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn catches her, raises her hands and presses a kiss to each fingertip, each knuckle. She lingers over Mildred’s ring, her breath stuttering a moment. She traces her lips over the hollows of Mildred’s palms, the heels of her hands, the places where her heart beats in her wrists. 

“I’m sorry,” Mildred breathes, and Gwendolyn shakes her head. 

Gwendolyn wraps her in towels, presses the cloth to her skin until she’s dry. She bundles Mildred in her own clothes, in blankets, slips into her own pair of sleep pants and an umber sweater that’s a little too large to be reasonably worn in public. 

Mildred watches her tidy their apartment again, return Mildred’s gun to her bedside table, move to the kitchen to make them both some chamomile tea. 

“I think we should order some soup in, tonight,” Gwendolyn murmurs, just loud enough for Mildred to hear her. 

Mildred can’t help it; she throws the blankets off herself, scrambles out of bed and presses herself to Gwendolyn’s back, wraps her arms around Gwendolyn’s middle. Gwendolyn hums a question at her, all affection, and Mildred presses her lips to the spot where Gwendolyn’s neck meets her back. 

She sweeps Gwendolyn’s hair to the side, tugs at the neck of the sweater until part of Gwendolyn’s shoulder is exposed. She drops a kiss to every freckles she can find in that space, traces her lips back up Gwendolyn’s neck, presses her lips to Gwendolyn’s ear and jaw. She repeats the process on the opposite side, holding Gwendolyn’s hair aside and massaging gently at her scalp. 

She reaches for Gwendolyn’s hand, and Gwendolyn leans back against her, breathes in and out deeply. She rubs her thumb over Gwendolyn’s engagement ring, tries to synchronize her breaths with Gwendolyn’s. 

“I love you,” she whispers. 

Gwendolyn threads their fingers together and turns her head to rest her temple against Mildred’s forehead. “I love you,” she responds. 

They stand like this, quiet, before Gwendolyn speaks again. 

“They won’t hurt you anymore.” 

“I know.” 

The butcherbird sings outside their kitchen window, and the sparrows and finches fall silent, and the kettle whistles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeyyyy bbs how we doing? All good? 
> 
> Did you know that the loggerhead "butcherbird" shrike is native to both Mexico and Texas? I was listening to Hozier (as sapphics do) and looking for birds native to Mexico, and that gray little baby popped up and I was like WELP THERE WE GO 
> 
> Also, I don't know if y'all have ever seen a WWII Colt M1911 fire before, but 1) I am definitely on some sort of list now from my google searches, and 2) those bastards SMOKE
> 
> If you're wondering what in the heckie Gwendolyn is talking about towards the end, please see [ This post by Comicbooklovergreen on tumblr.](https://cblgblog.tumblr.com/post/633055643759263744/so-heres-the-deal-guys-file-this-one-under-i) She posted it and my brain went "welp, that's canon now," and uhhhh here we are! 
> 
> Anyone feel like guessing what next chapter might be?
> 
> Sending y'all love and warm thoughts <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwendolyn Briggs and Mildred Ratched marry on the 21st day of March in the year 1951, in front of their closest friends and under the watchful eye of God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Fluff
> 
> Yeah, that's... that's pretty much it. 
> 
> I dearly hope you all are safe this winter solstice. Keep those fires burning, and keep yourselves warm! 
> 
> Go grab some tissues, and buckle up for an emotional ride. I did end up referring to a Catholic ceremony (though not a mass, per se), since I've established that at least my version of Gwendolyn has fairly strong faith. Is it super historically accurate? Probably not. But I couldn't find a script to any of the secret weddings, so I went full let's just give the lesbians a nice wedding fantasy, and you know what? I'm happy with it. Enjoy, my loves, happy solstice :) <3

February is a quiet month, one Mildred and Gwendolyn spend slowly opening themselves to the world like the petals of a lily, slowly peeling away protective layers until the vulnerable parts of them are exposed. Fernanda joins them for breakfast a few times a week, pulls loose the teeth that sink themselves into Mildred’s skin with the words that echo from the past. Elina senses a change in Gwendolyn, wordlessly stays by her side as they move through crowded places, wraps her slender fingers around Mildred’s wrist when she starts to drift. Violet opens her arms and coaxes them all to do the same. 

There is dancing in the rain, heads tilted back and eyes squeezed shut against the drops that fall from the sky; there is merciless teasing of Fernanda and her likelihood of having a new woman on her arm from week to week; there are hushed words spoken around radios reporting the strikes in New Zealand; there are slow dances in hidden places and tears shed between friends around an overflowing table. 

Violet takes Mildred shopping for a wedding dress, manages to convince her that she can spend a few hours away from Gwendolyn safely. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you, niña,” she says, holding Mildred’s shoulders with hands weathered by the years. Mildred smiles a watery smile and lets herself be guided. 

Violet is a being of laughter, a whirlwind of joy, and when she brings Mildred a charming white cocktail hat with a cream veil hanging off it, Mildred lets her pin it in place. Violet gasps, wraps her arms around Mildred’s shoulders and stares at her through the mirror. 

“Bella,” she breathes, and her eyes sparkle. “Papi is going to lose his mind!” 

Mildred finds herself giggling at that, and the store attendant that’s been following them around nods sagely. 

They arrive back at Violet and Elina’s home to find Elina and Gwendolyn in the kitchen, shirtsleeves rolled up as Elina shapes balls of meat in her palms and Gwendolyn kneads at a rough, brownish dough. Violet speeds through the house with Mildred’s dress and hat in hand, leaving Mildred to blink at the sight before her. 

Gwendolyn looks up and smiles at her and the tension in her chest loosens. She moves to Gwendolyn’s side, places a hand on her forearm. “What are you two making?” she asks as she pops up on her toes to press a kiss to Gwendolyn’s cheek. 

Gwendolyn leans into her and pats the dough into a vaguely circular shape. “Rye bread, meatballs, and, uh…” 

“Bell peppers,” Elina says, pointing to her left with the hand that holds a spatula. “If you absolutely must do something, you can make drinks. Otherwise, shoo.” 

Mildred snorts, presses another kiss to Gwendolyn’s cheek and squeezes her arm. “What would you like?” 

February ends in three of the driest days on record followed by two straight days of rain. Gwendolyn coaxes Mildred into the sea on the last day before rain, teaches her how to use the sea to push herself back to shore, rather than fighting the whole way. The rain strikes as they have their morning coffee outside, and their cups are abandoned as they rush to close the doors and windows they’ve left open. Gwendolyn only pouts a little when she realizes her danish has been lost to the storm, and Mildred only laughs a little when she admits why she’s pouting. Several baths are taken over the next few days, and Mildred learns— after all this time— that Gwendolyn has some genuine anxiety over her falling asleep in still water. 

The first day of March, Mildred wakes to a flower on Gwendolyn’s pillow and the soft patter of rain against their windows. It’s not pelting anymore, and the apartment is lit up with sun peeking through the clouds and curtains. Mildred spins the little daisy between her fingers and smiles. 

“Good morning,” Gwendolyn murmurs as she emerges from the bathroom, scratching at her scalp as she yawns. “Would you like some coffee?” 

There are three more daisies, and then the fifth morning Mildred wakes before Gwendolyn. She rolls on top of her slightly, tucks her head into the crook of Gwendolyn’s neck, and breathes a sigh of relief. She’s able to bask in that warmth for a few minutes before Gwendolyn starts to stir, making sleepy little disgruntled noises. 

“Good morning,” Mildred breathes against her skin, and Gwendolyn squeezes at her before she groans slightly. “What?” 

“You woke up before me,” she complains fuzzily. Mildred pulls back to stare at her, waits for further explanation. “Now your flower won’t be a surprise.”

Mildred bites her lip, but it doesn’t work for long. 

“Stop laughing at me, it’s too early!” 

When Gwendolyn wakes before Mildred, there is always a flower waiting for her. 

On the fourteenth day of March, Mildred wakes to laughter on the back patio and a frangipani draped gently over her curled hand. She pushes herself to sitting and stretches, rubs at the silk of her nightgown as she blinks in the sunlight. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” a voice calls, and she jumps slightly before she recognizes him. 

“Trevor!” 

She flings the covers off of her legs and swings out of bed, crosses the apartment and throws her arms around his shoulders. 

“Hey, Millie,” he laughs, and his hands are warm against her back. “You sleepy little thing, you missed your present.” 

She blinks as she eases herself back to the floor, looks over her shoulder. “Gwendolyn’s flower?”

Trevor laughs and pats her hip, presses a mug of coffee into her hand. “Table.” 

She murmurs her thanks for the coffee as she moves back towards the bed. There’s an envelope sitting on Gwendolyn’s side table, and Mildred eyes it suspiciously. “You should open it with Gwenny,” Trevor calls. 

“What should we be opening?” 

Mildred turns towards the sound of Gwendolyn’s voice, fingers tightening on her mug as her smile widens. Gwendolyn is leaning against the inner door to their back patio, one leg bent and crossed over the other, her hands in the pockets of her high-waisted linen trousers. She has a sleeveless top on, and with the return of warm weather the definition in her arms has returned, as have the freckles that dust over her skin. 

She glows in the sunlight, a copper halo behind her hair, and Mildred is rooted to the spot in awe. 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she smiles, pushing off the door and striding towards Mildred. Mildred can’t help the tensing up in her body, but it’s not out of fear— when Gwendolyn’s fingers touch her waist and arm, she falls forward into her, careful not to spill any of the coffee she’s yet to drink. Gwendolyn kisses her forehead. “You were fast asleep when the boys came by.” 

“I haven’t had a nightmare since the tenth,” Mildred answers, letting her eyes flutter closed. Gwendolyn hums in agreement and kisses her forehead again. “Thank you, by the way,” she adds, lifting her head, “for my blooms.” 

Gwendolyn grins at her, lifts a hand to her cheek and rubs her thumb over Mildred’s skin. She drops a kiss to Mildred’s nose and Mildred giggles, presses the envelope against Gwendolyn’s stomach. “We have a present.” 

“It’s not much,” another voice calls, “but it felt like an appropriate wedding present.” 

Mildred looks over Gwendolyn’s shoulder to find a medium-height, smiling man standing with his arms crossed over his chest and feet just wider than shoulder-width apart. He looks entirely out of place with his three-piece suit, but there isn’t a drop of sweat on his golden skin, no trace of water misted over his jet-black hair combed neatly in place. 

“I’m sure whatever it is, it’ll be perfect, Andrew,” Gwendolyn says fondly. He smiles, and his deep brown eyes disappear somewhat under the force of it. Trevor goes to his side, hands him another cup of coffee, his hand lingering on the shorter man’s hip. 

Gwendolyn returns the envelope to Mildred’s fingers and raises an eyebrow; Mildred blushes slightly, but acquiesces, slips her finger into the seal and opens the envelope without tearing the paper. She leans into Gwendolyn, sips at her coffee, as Gwendolyn slides the contents of the envelope from their hiding place. 

She unfolds a length of paper and goes stiff, and Mildred looks up to her to find her eyes wide and lips parted. 

“Trevor, is this…” 

Gwendolyn looks to Trevor, who shrugs nonchalantly as Andrew grins. “Like Andrew said, it’s not much, but it felt appropriate.” 

“Gwendolyn?”

Gwendolyn looks back to Mildred, eases her coffee mug out of her fingers, pushes the paper into her hands. It’s a birth certificate.

 _Mildred Briggs Ratched_ , it reads. _Date of birth: September 17, 1911_

Mildred is suddenly very grateful that Gwendolyn has taken her coffee out of her hands. They tremble, and her eyes fill with tears, and Gwendolyn’s arm around her may be the only thing holding her upright. “Trevor,” she breathes. It’s squeaky and doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s all that she can let out before her throat closes around her voice. 

Trevor shrugs again. “A birth certificate that’s been falsified once can be falsified again. Wasn’t too hard.” 

Andrew chuckles when Mildred looks to him. “They really ought to make that more difficult,” he says, “but in this case I’m not complaining.” 

Mildred shakes her head and swallows, tries to keep her fingers from crumpling the paper. She buries her face in Gwendolyn’s neck and breathes in shakily. Gwendolyn wraps her arm around Mildred’s back and holds her other hand out to Trevor. 

He moves to them, tugs Andrew along with him. The two men wrap the two women up in a warm embrace, the scratchiness of Andrew’s woolen suit brushing along the exposed parts of Mildred’s upper back. “Fixed your birthday,” Trevor murmurs, his voice more a rumble than a sound. 

“Thank you,” Mildred manages, lets a sob wrack her frame. “Trevor, thank you.”

He snakes his hand between her body and Gwendolyn’s, squeezes her hand. “Of course, Millie. You deserve this.” 

Nearly all of the information on the certificate is the same as the one Mildred has carried for most of her life. It lists the same place of birth— Benicia, California, the last place her parents had been before her mother left her to the wolves. But it does not list Edmund as her brother, a fact that makes Mildred cry all over again when they burn the old one. 

“Mildred Briggs Ratched,” Gwendolyn repeats as they tuck the new certificate away in Mildred’s suitcase, breathless. “Mildred Briggs Ratched.” 

She kisses Mildred’s knuckles, and Mildred tries to breathe around the joy that freezes her lungs. 

Betsy Bucket arrives in Mexico on the eighteenth of March, knocks on Mildred and Gwendolyn’s door as they emerge from the kitchen, coffee cups in Gwendolyn’s hands. Mildred jumps, smooths her hands over her skirt, and opens the door. 

Betsy Bucket bites her lip, almost a perfect mirror to Mildred, then launches herself into the younger woman’s arms. They cling to each other, trembling with grief and the effort of remaining tearless, and Gwendolyn sighs indulgently before she moves back to the stove to brew another cup of coffee. 

Mildred ushers Betsy inside, sits her down in a chair by the fireplace. She kneels before Betsy and rests her hands on Betsy’s knees. “I’m so sorry,” she chokes out, and Betsy shakes her head. 

“Let me see,” Betsy responds, and Mildred rolls up the short sleeve of her blouse. Betsy’s fingers trace over scarring flesh and she winces, then pulls Mildred up to hug her. “Jesus, Mildred, I— Jesus.”

As has been arranged, Fernanda joins them for lunch before escorting Betsy to her home. By the time their drinks have arrived, all has been forgiven; Betsy’s battle cry of “fucking men” has been called enough times that Mildred knows she isn’t the perpetrator of Louise’s death in Betsy’s eyes. Fernanda’s eyes twinkle. 

“That’s a dangerous situation, right there,” Gwendolyn says as Betsy’s car follows Fernanda’s. 

“What do you mean?” Mildred asks. 

Gwendolyn smirks, pulls Mildred a little closer by the waist. “Fernanda? With Betsy Bucket?”

Mildred looks up to her, aghast. “Gwendolyn!” 

Gwendolyn shrugs, smile still firmly in place. “She’s got a type, Mildred. She seems very done with men, and well, Fernanda _is_ her type.” 

Mildred pushes at her chest and laughs. “Given Betsy’s tendency to jump into the future, that could be very jarring for Fernanda.” 

Gwendolyn swings them around, guides Mildred back to their home. “Pobrecita,” she sighs, and she doesn’t sound sad or sympathetic at all. 

The night before their wedding, Violet calls the apartment as Mildred and Gwendolyn are cleaning up after dinner. “It’s your final night of freedom,” Violet insists, “we must go out!” 

“Would Trevor and Andrew be allowed to come?” Mildred asks. She can’t imagine going anywhere other than their normal bar, but she also can’t imagine being without the two men so close to the day of. 

“Oh. Hmm.”

There’s a few moments of silence. “I’ll call you right back,” Violet says, and then she’s hung up. 

“I guess we’re not taking an early night,” Gwendolyn chuckles. Mildred huffs, moves across the apartment to scrub at the dishes she’d left soaking when the phone rang. 

She and Gwendolyn manage to finish up the washing and set aside the coffee preparations for the morning by the time the phone rings again. 

“We’ll pick them up,” Violet says, “meet us at the bar in forty minutes. Where are they staying?” 

Mildred and Gwendolyn arrive to a carful of women convincing Andrew and Trevor that yes, everything will be fine and no, they do not need to be fluent in Spanish to order a drink. “Gwenny, thank God,” Trevor breathes as they approach, “they’re not going to throw me out for trying to order in English, are they?” 

Gwendolyn shakes her head with a fond smile. “That’s not what you’ll get thrown out for, Trevor, no.” 

Trevor does not get thrown out of the bar. Neither does Andrew. They get some stares from other patrons— being the only men in the bar other than the bartender— but when it becomes clear that they are together, most of those looks subside. A hurried conversation between Violet and the bartender ensure that Trevor and Andrew are allowed to stay. 

They’re all more than a few drinks— and one round of tequila shots, courtesy of Betsy Bucket— when the crooning sounds of Daniel Santos start to emerge from the jukebox in the corner. _Perdón,_ he calls, and Gwendolyn grins and tugs at Mildred’s hands, ignoring her groans of protest. 

Mildred remembers what this song did to her last time. She remembers the heat of it, the dizzying closeness, Gwendolyn’s lips at her neck, her feet faltering with uncertainty and want tangled together. 

It’s easier to slip into it this time, and Gwendolyn presses their cheeks together rather than teasing at her neck. She still slips a leg between Mildred’s, pulls at her until their bodies are pressed flush together, until the warmth of Gwendolyn’s hand at the small of her back starts to feel like the sparking point to a raging fire. 

Gwendolyn chuckles in her ear. “What?” 

Mildred finds the world spinning briefly, and then she’s faced with the sight of Fernanda teaching Betsy how to do this dance, the same way Gwendolyn had done months earlier. Mildred lifts one hand from where she clutches at Gwendolyn’s shoulders to cover her mouth against a giggle. “Oh, poor Betsy,” she breathes. 

“Poor Betsy?” Gwendolyn says, amusement making her voice thick. “Poor Fernanda. That woman isn’t going to know what hit her.” 

Then she pulls Mildred’s hips forward, and Mildred forgets all about the good doctor and head nurse. 

At the end of the night, Fernanda holds Betsy upright as the nurse tells the story of Mildred and the peach. “I thought she was going to attack me,” she slurs, and Violet giggles as Andrew rolls his eyes. She lurches forward, out of Fernanda’s arms and towards Mildred. “An’ now,” she says as she frames Mildred’s face, “she’s gonna marry herself a pretty golden Sappho and make happy lil’ babies on a beach in Mexico.” 

Gwendolyn chuckles. “I don’t think babies work like that,” Trevor says slowly, his own steps a little more unsteady. 

“I’m a _nurse,_ ” Betsy insists, spinning wildly to point at him. Mildred and Fernanda both reach out to steady her. “And you could help with that!” 

Trevor looks horrified. “Millie, dear, you are very pretty, but—“ 

“No, no, that’s alright,” Mildred laughs, “I think— I think we’ll be alright.” 

Everyone but Gwendolyn and Mildred pile back into Elina’s car. Fernanda opens the door for Betsy and is rewarded with a pointed stare and a “you—“ with a poke to the chest, “are very pretty.” 

“Thank you,” Fernanda says, “now would you please get in?” 

Elina rolls her eyes for show, and Mildred chuckles. “You’re coming over early tomorrow,” Elina reminds her. “We want you there at 9 at the latest, alright?” 

“Alright,” Gwendolyn calls back. 

“Clean,” Violet reminds her. 

“Yes, clean, nothing else,” Gwendolyn agrees, opening Mildred’s door for her. “Goodnight!” 

Elina slips into her car last, sticks her hand out the window in a goodbye. Gwendolyn does the same, and they each turn onto the road. 

Mildred changes out of the clothes she wore to the bar, but can’t seem to settle for sleep. She tries changing into a set of Gwendolyn’s pajamas, but it doesn’t help, and she ends up pacing the length of their apartment while brushing her teeth. Gwendolyn looks up from her book and huffs a little breath. “Would you like to go for a walk?” she asks. 

“It’s past midnight,” Mildred responds, “we ought to get to sleep.” 

“Obviously you’re not ready,” Gwendolyn retorts, but there’s no heat to it, even as she snaps her book shut. “Come on. Let’s go down to the beach.”

They walk down to the beach in their bare feet, pinkies brushing in the soft amber firelights of some ever-rolling party. When the ocean is close to their toes, Gwendolyn takes Mildred’s hand in hers. 

“Tomorrow,” she says, and the weight of the word makes the damp air chilly on Mildred’s bare skin. 

“Having second thoughts?” Mildred tries to joke. 

“Never.” Gwendolyn glances at her. “Are you?”

There’s too much vulnerability there. It’s so open, so fragile, that Mildred stops them both, pulls Gwendolyn back to her. The ocean laps around their ankles as she lifts Gwendolyn’s knuckles to her lips. “Never, Gwendolyn.”

Gwendolyn tips her head down until their foreheads touch, closes her eyes. “It’ll be an adventure, won’t it?”

Mildred nods, tilts her chin up slightly. “The very best kind.”

Gwendolyn’s flutter open, and they echo the waves in their depth and dynamics, and her kiss tastes like tequila and the salt of the ocean and the cigarette she smoked just before they left the bar. Mildred clings to her as sand rushes over their toes. 

“The last time we kissed here past midnight,” Gwendolyn starts, teasing returned to her voice. 

Mildred giggles against her. “I don’t know where that alcove is.” 

Gwendolyn pulls away and looks around. “Not sure I know where it is either, actually…” 

Mildred starts to squint into the darkness, opens her mouth to say it must be further along; she finds herself squealing instead as Gwendolyn lifts her over her shoulder, arms scrabbling at Gwendolyn’s back as her feet kick out. “Put me down!” 

“Mmm, later,” Gwendolyn says, marching back the way they came. Mildred giggles through a pout, then closes her eyes and listens to the waves get further away as she bounces along. 

Neither Gwendolyn nor Mildred sleep very much that night. They tangle in the sheets, and Gwendolyn whispers sweet words to Mildred, and they tremble and shake with little sighs and gasps that are barely audible over the sounds of the ocean. Their eyes close, but their fingers never loosen. 

The sun has not yet breached the horizon when they decide to give up on sleep. Gwendolyn insists she must look terrible, and for a moment Mildred is too awestruck by her visage in the lamplight to argue. She pins Gwendolyn to the bed and convinces her otherwise. 

They dress in the same clothes that had been discarded upon arriving home from the beach, fill mugs with coffee, and walk back down to the shore. They find the alcove where Gwendolyn held Mildred against the rocks, where Mildred rests when Gwendolyn swims, and recline in the sand as they sip coffee and wait for the dawn to arrive. 

The sun paints the world pink and lavender and gold, fuzzy brushstrokes of light reflecting on the gentle morning tide. 

The sun paints the world in hues that remind Mildred of Gwendolyn, and the ocean fills her ears, and she finds herself watching Gwendolyn rather than the horizon. 

They shower separately, something that’s nearly painful for Mildred, but one she insists on. She doesn’t let Gwendolyn see that she’s wearing the same white set of lace and silk that she was given for Christmas. She leaves her hair down to dry, already knows Violet will do something to her locks anyways, but she twists her signature rolls atop her head. 

Gwendolyn emerges from the shower slightly pink with the heat, towelling at her hair the way she always does, and Mildred fights against the urge to tackle her to the bed again. Gwendolyn smiles knowingly, promises “Later, my love,” with a voice so tender it nearly breaks Mildred apart. 

When they arrive at Violet and Elina’s, Betsy is arguing with Trevor in the backyard over where some archway should go, and Andrew is trying to learn how to say “I need help” in Spanish. Fernanda is very patient with him. 

Elina whistles at the sight of Mildred, winks, and pulls Gwendolyn inside. “You can kiss later,” she calls when Mildred protests weakly, “it builds tension!” 

Violet rolls her eyes. “She’s very excited,” she says, presses a kiss to each of Mildred’s cheeks. “Venga, they’ve left us our bedroom.” 

She undoes Mildred’s pale blue dress immediately, bites her lip against a squeal when she sees the corset Mildred wears. “ _Niña_ ,” she hisses as she claps her hands. 

Mildred blushes, covers her chest with her forearms. “It was a Christmas present,” she admits shyly. 

“Something old,” Violet winks, then whirls away and returns with a robe that she drapes over Mildred’s shoulders. “Something new can wait. Now, dime, how was your hair when you first met?” 

It’s been years since her hair has been in a low bun, almost long enough that Mildred would worry she doesn’t remember how she looks when she wears one. But Violet twists her hair in place quickly, finds herself with more extra hair than Mildred ever did, winds little spirals along the curve of the bun. She bites her lip in the mirror, tugs the spirals loose, drapes them around the bun. Violet and Mildred both wrinkle their noses and giggle at the strange sight it presents, and the loose locks are wound back into little curls that frame the inside rim of the bun again. 

Mildred is slipping her feet into the pale blue heels Violet had convinced her into buying when there’s a knock on the door. “Pasa,” Violet says, and the door creaks open. 

“Just me,” Betsy says, pauses for a second. “Oh, and Fernanda.” 

“Hi,” Mildred calls, patting slightly at the powder covering her cheeks. She ought to put on some blush, really, but Violet hadn’t left any out, and she’s beginning to think the woman doesn’t ever use blush at all. She may not own any. 

When Mildred looks behind her, she doesn’t miss Betsy’s fingers wrapped around Fernanda’s wrist. She lets a smile spread across her face at that before she jumps at Betsy’s gasp. “Oh, _Mildred_ ,” she breathes, and Mildred shakes her head just a little.

“What?” Mildred asks around a laugh. 

“You look so beautiful.” 

Mildred laughs breathily again, waves a hand in the air. “Don’t cry, Betsy, please, not until the ceremony.” 

Betsy sniffles and nods. Fernanda sighs and holds up a basket. “I believe we were instructed to gather “something borrowed” from the garden.” 

Violet grins and bounces on her toes. “Yes! Bring them here, please!” She continues rooting through a small leather bag as Fernanda crosses the room, finally holds up a small golden compact with a cry of victory. Mildred blinks in surprise. “Pout, please,” she half-sings, and Mildred follows orders. 

Violet swipes a finger through pink cream and dabs gently at Mildred’s lips, tongue sticking out between her teeth as she concentrates. She places one dot to the center of each cheek, too, then uses her clean fingers to blend out the color. 

“Alright, lindas,” Violet says, pushing at Mildred’s shoulder to turn her around. “Well?”

Fernanda grins. Betsy looks dangerously close to tears again, but she shoots Violet a thumbs up. 

The hat from the dress shop goes atop Mildred’s head at an angle, the veil falling across her face, one victory roll left exposed. Violet searches through the basket of flowers with gentle fingers, pulls some small, purple-tipped white flowers free. She nestles a few of the little starbursts around the free curl, then sets to tucking one into each curl at the back of Mildred’s head. “Crocus,” she says. 

“I’ve never seen white crocus before,” Mildred responds, a little stunned. 

Violet smiles over her shoulder in the mirror on the vanity. “You haven’t been to Oaxaca when the spring is new.” She drops an affectionate kiss to the back of Mildred’s head when she’s finished. “They really are perfect for you, niña.”

Mildred furrows her brow even as she admires how the white and purple set her hair ablaze. 

“Something pretty that comes out of something very hard for a very long time.” 

It’s Mildred’s turn to bite her lip, sniffle at the tears that start to bloom behind her eyes. “Oye, none of that,” Violet croons, taking Mildred’s face in her hands. “It’s your wedding day. No tears, not until you see Gwendolyn, mmm?”

Mildred nods a little helplessly, tries not to knock the flowers in her hair loose. “Come, help me make your bouquet.” 

Trevor helps Gwendolyn adjust the suspenders that she attaches to her high-waisted trousers. Elina does her hair, twists the top parts of it back away from her face, leaves the rest of it loose and bouncy around her shoulders. She tucks a single daisy into Gwendolyn’s hair, at the point where the two locks meet at the back of her head, uses the stem of the little flower to tie her hair in place. 

Gwendolyn assess herself in the mirror: a white collared blouse, high-waisted, light gray linen trousers with a line of brown buttons on either side— buttons that start high on her waist and stretch down her hip, centered below each breast; suspenders that match the buttons, her Oxford heels. Trevor hands her the gray jacket she’ll be wearing, linen and double-breasted, and she slips it on. 

“You look damn good,” Trevor says. “Better than you looked at our wedding.” 

She snorts. “That’s not particularly difficult.” 

He shakes his head fondly, pats a hand over each of her shoulders. “You never did believe me. Go with rouge on the lips today, trust me.”

She covers his hands with hers, smiles at him through the mirror. “I always have, Trevor.”

He rests his forehead against the back of her head for a few moments, and despite the exhaustion that should be plaguing her, Gwendolyn has never felt so at peace, so ready. 

Elina hands her a small tin of gentle rouge, and Gwendolyn is about finished applying it when there’s a soft knock on the door. 

“It’s Andrew,” a voice calls, “I come with an offering from your bride.” 

Gwendolyn grins and moves to the door, ushers him in. He asks Elina for a hat pin, and she spends a few moments finding one as he presents the flower Mildred had chosen for Gwendolyn a few moments prior. It’s a small, bright yellow sunflower, and Andrew pins it to Gwendolyn’s lapel with steady fingers. 

“She wrote a note, too,” he says, passes it to Gwendolyn as he pats the jacket back to smooth. 

_Faith, loyalty, and adoration,_ the note reads, Mildred’s handwriting perfectly neat, perfectly looped. _I love you._

Gwendolyn grins, lifts the note to her lips before folding it and tucking it into her right pocket. Then she slips off her ring and presses it into Andrew’s hand. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to bring hers to me?” 

He arches an eyebrow and sighs, but he returns moments later with Mildred’s ring. It goes into her left pocket, right beside the paper that holds her vows. 

“Come,” Elina says, wrapping her arm around Gwendolyn’s shoulders, “let’s go meet Father Samuel.” 

Father Samuel is a stout man, and he has to look up at Gwendolyn, but his eyes are bright and his smile wide. “I married these two,” he says cheerfully, gesturing at Elina and an empty space beside her, “on the back patio of their little bar. It rained! A blessing.” 

His eyes twinkle. Gwendolyn likes him immediately. “I understand you’ve prepared vows,” he says, “would you still like the traditional opening and readings?” 

Gwendolyn thumbs at the note in her right pocket. Faith. “Yes, please, Father. Thank you.” 

His hand is warm on her arm. “Happily, my child.” 

Trevor and Andrew settle on two chairs near where Gwendolyn stands. Betsy and Fernanda settle close to where Mildred will be, and Gwendolyn smiles when she spots Fernanda’s arm around Betsy’s shoulder. Elina seems unsure of where to sit for a moment, then huffs and pulls two chairs to the middle of the empty space and plops herself down in one. Trevor arches an eyebrow at her. “Mildred can walk the rest of the way by herself,” Elina says to him, “and we’re here for both of them.” 

Trevor laughs. Gwendolyn does too. 

Violet pops out of the house moments later. “Almost ready,” she grins, waves at Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn waves shyly back. 

“Shall we?” Father Samuel asks, holding out a white-robed arm, and Gwendolyn takes a deep breath and a single step forward. 

The settle under the loose archway that Trevor and Betsy constructed, imperfectly perfect, gnarled wood covered in strands of ivy they picked from the side of the house. Their semi-circle of grass is surrounded by dahlias on one side and marigold on the other, and Gwendolyn can smell the rosebush not far off. She takes another deep breath, unsure of when she’ll be able to take the next, and waits with her hands clasped in front of her, head bowed in silent prayer. 

Father Samuel’s hand lands on her elbow. “Mira,” he says gently, and she turns. 

Mildred stands in the arched passageway of the house, and Gwendolyn’s eyes blur with tears nearly instantly. Mildred’s smile is radiant, as small and shy as it is, her lips a soft pink rather than her signature red. Her doe eyes shine in the sunlight, hold Gwendolyn’s heart captive; she lifts a hand to brush at a single strand of hair that’s come loose and Gwendolyn notices the flowers in her hair, little lavender-tinged white starbursts that set her hair ablaze. The hat that sits opposite to them is simple, smooth white felt that exists largely to give the veil over her face an anchor. The rest of her fiery locks sit curled in the same bun she’d worn when Gwendolyn first saw her, encouraging a man to cough himself back to life, eyes full of fury and determination. 

Her eyes are still full of that drive, but the fury has gone, leaving love in it’s wake, and Gwendolyn is glad for the deep breaths she’d greedily taken before. 

She notes Mildred’s periwinkle heels largely because she has to stop staring at Mildred’s face. They’re delicate little things, and Gwendolyn would worry over whether she could stay standing if she didn’t know better. 

A few moments is far too long, and she tries to look back to Mildred’s face, makes it to the bouquet before she has to stop again. There are more of Gwendolyn’s sunflower, bundled together with the red and green tube-like flowers of the pineapple sage— _healing, protection_. There are dahlias, ever dahlias, with their elegance and dignity, and their delicate frangipani flowers: _love, love that lasts past one lifetime, devotion over many lives_.

Gwendolyn swallows. Her heart bobs in her throat, and her lungs suck in a quick little breath without her permission. A tear threatens to slip free and she brushes at it hurriedly. 

Violet murmurs something in Mildred’s ear and Mildred hiccups a breath before she takes a step forward. The skirt of the dress she wears flutters around her calves, the longer layer tangling between her legs as the top blooms outward in the late-morning breeze. The skirts are effortlessly voluminous from where they hang from Mildred’s hips. The diamond-shaped waistband of the dress holds tight to Mildred’s body, the bronzed flowers embroidered there dancing over her breath; the bottom of the diamond curves perfectly over her hips as the top falls perfectly between her breasts. The sweetheart top of the dress is rouched, but it does little to hide the hitch in Mildred’s breath, only leaves the excited tension she holds in her shoulders and collarbone more exposed. 

There is no music as Mildred moves towards Gwendolyn. There is no sound at all. 

Mildred floats towards Gwendolyn like a dream, like a ghost in all her flowing, fluttery glory, and Gwendolyn is breathless. She hasn’t the ability to stop the tears that roll down her cheeks, but she hopes the smile on her face is enough to ease Mildred’s inevitable worry over them. 

All Gwendolyn hears is the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears, speeding to a frenzy as Mildred draws nearer. Violet lets her go when they reach Elina, and Mildred does not stop, seems to barely notice she’s alone now. She lets the bouquet go, too, lets Violet slip it from her fingers. Her feet quicken just the tiniest bit, and Gwendolyn finds herself reaching for Mildred in the final few steps, relief slamming into her chest as Mildred’s hands slip into hers. 

They come face to face, and Mildred’s skirts swing around her legs, all cotton-soft and billowy, and she smiles around a hiccup. “Hi.”

“Hello.” 

“Hello,” Father Samuel rumbles, poking his head up to their shoulders. “Are you two ready?” 

Mildred reaches up to brush away Gwendolyn’s tears, then settles her hands back in Gwendolyn’s with a sniffle. “Yes.” 

Gwendolyn transfers Mildred’s hands into one of her own, lifts the stiff net-like veil from Mildred’s face. She finds a pin waiting in the hat, threads that through to hold it in place. She cups the newly exposed skin of Mildred’s cheek and marvels at her warmth.

Father Samuel clears his throat. His voice is far steadier than Gwendolyn expected, but it fills the space between them and their friends with a kind of joy that cannot be contained. 

“We are gathered here today to celebrate one of life’s greatest moments: the joining of two hearts under the grace of God.” He pauses, thumbs stroking over a leather-bound Bible. “If there is anyone present who has just cause why this couple should not be united, let them speak now, or forever hold their peace.” 

There’s a quiet moment, and Father Samuel shrugs. Elina tries to hide a snicker, but Violet hears and swats at her thigh. 

“Who gives this woman,” he starts again, hand at Mildred’s shoulder, “to be married today?” 

“I do,” three voices call, and Mildred turns her head to the sound. Betsy grins, and Fernanda gazes at Mildred with sure and steady eyes, and Violet beams even as happy little tears track down her cheeks. Mildred presses her lips together and hiccups another breath, looks back to Gwendolyn as she squeezes Mildred’s hands. 

“You are very lucky,” Father Samuel murmurs, clearly amused. 

“Yes,” Mildred breathes, eyes tied to Gwendolyn’s ocean blues, “yes, I am.” 

Father Samuel smiles. His hand releases Mildred’s shoulder, returns to the Bible as he places another warm hand on Gwendolyn’s shoulder. “And who gives this woman to be married today?” 

“I do, freely and joyfully,” Trevor says, and Gwendolyn looks over her shoulder to find him grinning past tears. Andrew’s hand is on his knee, gentle squeezes trading with comforting pats. “And with no regrets.” 

Father Samuel seems to consider him for a moment, watches the way Trevor and Gwendolyn gaze at each other before Gwendolyn turns back to Mildred. He breathes a steady breath, and Gwendolyn tries very hard to echo that. 

“You have come together today so the the Lord may seal and strengthen your love in the presence of God and this community,” he says. Mildred’s thumbs sweep over Gwendolyn’s knuckles as she smiles. Gwendolyn loses herself in the feeling for a moment. “Christ abundantly blesses your love; he strengthens you so that you may assume the duties of marriage in mutual and lasting fidelity.” 

He lifts his head slightly, speaks to the six people gathered in their presence. “Today we have come together to witness the joining of these two lives. For them, out of the routine of life, the extraordinary has occurred.” 

There’s laughter from the gathered people, and Father Samuel smiles. Gwendolyn leans forward, touches her forehead to Mildred’s, and Mildred lifts her chin, hiccups another breath in. _Patience,_ Gwendolyn thinks, though she can hardly wait either. 

“These two souls met, fell in love, and made the choice to bind their souls forever. True love, love that binds, is far more than simple romance; this is what we are celebrating today.” 

He pauses again, places his hand gently over Mildred’s and Gwendolyn’s. “A good marriage must be created. It is never being too proud to hold hands; it is remembering to say “I love you,” at least once a day; it is never going to sleep angry; it is standing together in the face of the world; it is the capacity to forgive; it is the common search for the good, the beautiful, the blooming of the soul and growth of the body.”

“The word of the Lord:” 

“Love suffereth long, and is kind; love envieth not, love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seekers not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; bearerth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, edureth all things.” 

“Thanks be to God,” the assembled respond. Father Samuel smiles, and it’s serene and loving, and Gwendolyn feels that familiar wave of calm come over her. 

“I understand you have prepared your own vows,” he says, and Gwendolyn and Mildred both nod. 

“Let me go first,” Mildred pleads, and Gwendolyn smiles, sways forward before she remembers not to kiss her. “I don’t have pockets to hide mine like you do.” 

Gwendolyn giggles at her hushed confession. “Darling.” 

Mildred clears her throat. “I have felt like a ship without an anchor for my whole life,” she begins, tips her head back with a frustrated little noise. She takes a deep breath as their friends chuckle at the frustration. “Like— like I was hurtling towards something, trying to speed things along, trying to fix everything around me. As if everything had to be perfect for the arrival of something big.”

She swallows, and Gwendolyn lifts a hand to brush the tears from her cheek. “Something important.” 

They share a deep breath, and Mildred looks down with a smile. “The moment I saw you, something stopped. I wasn’t running anymore, even though I tried to keep going— Lord, did I try— oh, sorry, Father.”

Father Samuel waves it away with an indulgent smile. 

“But every day— every morning I woke alone, I was sad and lonely, and it was different than before. And the first morning I woke with you, I…” 

She drifts off, stares into Gwendolyn’s eyes. Gwendolyn squeezes her hand, takes half a step closer before a tiny warning grunt comes from Father Samuel. Mildred blinks, becomes aware of herself again. “I guess a person never realizes how much she loves someone ’till they are apart for a while. Now,” she clears her throat again, “now I know I love you more than I thought I could ever possibly love anyone.”

Gwendolyn presses her lips together to keep herself from responding. She has to let Mildred get through this. 

Mildred lifts their hands, rests her forehead against her own knuckles for a moment, uttering another complaining whine. Gwendolyn laughs, tugs their hands down and away. Mildred sighs. “You feel like— you _are_ ,” she corrects, “home. You’re home, you’re safety in the worst and scariest moments, you’re my anchor. You’re the kindness the world has made me wait for, and having you now, I don’t mind the wait.”

It’s Gwendolyn’s turn to tip her head backward. “God, Mildred.” Father Samuel barks a laugh, and she grins guiltily at him. 

“I’m not done,” Mildred warns her, and Gwendolyn groans. She’s never going to make it to her own vows. 

“I promise to have all the ironing done by the end of the week, though I can’t promise to have it done sooner.” Gwendolyn snorts. “I promise to accept the love you give, even when it scares me, and to try my best to give you the love you deserve. I promise to read while you swim, to believe you when you tell me something, to care for you whether we find ourselves in good or bad times.” She swallows once more, grins at Gwendolyn until the lines by her eyes appear. “I promise to never give up or give in.” 

“I love you,” Gwendolyn breathes, tips forward slightly. 

Mildred tips to meet her, touches their foreheads together. “I love you.” 

Father Samuel allows them a moment. Then he turns to Gwendolyn with a raised eyebrow. 

Gwendolyn clears her throat, reaches into her pocket to retrieve her own vows. “I wrote mine down,” she says, and Mildred giggles. “I knew I’d forget them.”

“You’d have been fine,” Mildred says.

“Not when you look like _that_ ,” she retorts. She unfolds the little piece of paper. “Oh, that’s what I started with.” 

Trevor cackles, and Andrew shushes him even as Fernanda and Betsy snicker together. 

“Mildred Briggs Ratched,” she starts, and Mildred whimpers. She bites at her lip and Gwendolyn pauses. “Stop that, please.” 

Mildred releases her lip. “Thank you.” Gwendolyn clears her throat again. “From the moment I saw you, I was entranced. I have been just as mystified by you every day since, and as much as I long to get to the bottom of the enigma that is Mildred _Briggs_ Ratched, I would happily spend the rest of my life trying to figure you out.” 

Mildred’s hand brushes her cheek, and Gwendolyn looks up to find a few tears have fallen for each of them. 

“I’m not gonna make it,” Betsy husks from somewhere in the audience. “Bury me by the beach.” 

“Or I could resuscitate you.”

Gwendolyn presses her tongue against the back of her teeth to keep from laughing. Father Samuel seems entirely nonplussed. 

“I would trade all the riches in the world, if I had them, for a home that we share. I could think of no better place, no better way to spend my days. You and your unimaginable wings,” she says, voice dropping to barely audible as she quotes one of the many poems she’s read to Mildred, “where dwells the breath of all persisting stars.” 

Mildred squeezes her hands, eyes sparking in recognition. 

“I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens,” Gwendolyn continues. “Only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses. Nobody—“ her voice catches and she has to clear her throat for what feels like the thousandth time that day. “Not even the rain, has such small hands.” 

Mildred blinks her starry eyes and Gwendolyn presses on, paper ignored in her fingers. “Understand I love you.”

“I cannot promise all of your days,” she breathes, because she knows to do otherwise would be a lie. “But I can promise all of mine, and all of me. I can promise to love you, fiercely and always, to hold the night at bay until the stars light the sky enough that your feet can fall sure on the grass without fear of the snakes that hide there. I can give you that, I will. I can promise to laugh when you are silly, to chase away the nightmares, to care for you in good times and bad. I can promise to always come home to you, to fall into your arms at the end of the day and know the world is right again.” 

Father Samuel sniffles quietly. Mildred grips at Gwendolyn’s hands as if she is the only thing keeping Mildred’s feet on the ground. 

“I fear no fate, for you are my fate, my sweet; I stand here and offer you my heart. Here,” she utters, brings their joined hands to her chest, “take it, take my heart and carry it with you. I love you. Wherever I go, be with me.”

Mildred sways forward, closes her eyes. Gwendolyn barely hears her when she answers, “This is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart: I carry your heart, I carry it in my heart.” 

Gwendolyn aches, down through her soul, deeper than the marrow in her bones. 

“I feel I hardly need to say this,” Father Samuel rumbles when he’s rediscovered his voice, “but it is tradition.”

“I would ask that you treat yourselves and each other with respect, and remind each other often of what brought you before the Lord today. Give— well, continue to give,” he smiles, breaking from his script a little, “the tenderness, gentleness, and kindness that your marriage deserves. When frustration and hardship assail you, as they are bound to, focus on what still seems right between you. This way, when the clouds of trouble hide the sun in your lives and you lose sight of it, you can remember it is still there. May your life be marked by abundance and happiness.” 

“Let us pray.”

Gwendolyn watches as Mildred bows her head. She’s entranced for a few moments, then remembers herself, bows her own head. 

“Let us pray for peace, happiness, and joy in the lives of those assembled here and those who are apart.”

“Lord, hear our prayer.”

The response is quiet, but sure. There are not many voices in this space, certainly fewer than would be at any mass, but they are present.

“Let us pray for the new additions to our families, that God watches over them, and that they are always surrounded by love and caring.”

“Lord, hear our prayer.”

“Let us pray for those in our lives who are sick and healing, may their road to recovery be blessed and swift.” 

“Lord, hear our prayer.” 

Mildred squeezes her hands, and Gwendolyn rubs her thumbs over Mildred’s knuckles. She aches, she yearns, and she waits. 

“Let us pray for those who have traveled this road with us, but could not join us here today. We know that those people are close to us in spirit.” 

“Lord, hear our prayer.” 

There’s a quiet moment, then, Father Samuel leaving them all to ponder the last prayers they wish to voice. 

There is no music, no reedy organ or crackling cello, but Gwendolyn’s heart keeps time with Mildred’s breathing. 

“Mildred,” Father Samuel says into the quiet, and she looks to him with nearly-startled eyes. “Do you take Gwendolyn to be your wife?”

“I do.”

Her voice trembles, but her hands are sure. Father Samuel smiles. “Do you promise to love, honor, cherish, and protect her, forsaking all others and holding only unto her forever more?”

“I do.”

She smiles at Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn’s eyes sting a little with the force of her light. 

“Gwendolyn, do you take Mildred to be your wi—“

“I do.”

Father Samuel nearly snorts, but holds a knuckle to his nose instead, waits for the urge to chuckle to pass. “Do you promise to love, honor, cherish, and protect her, forsaking all others and holding only unto her forever more?” 

“I do.” She squeezes Mildred’s hands again, barely resists kissing her knuckles. “Always.” 

“The word of the Lord:” 

Gwendolyn can see the look of impatience that flashes over Mildred’s eyes. She fights back a smile, and Mildred fights off rolling her eyes, narrows them at Gwendolyn instead. 

“Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God; and everyone that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God. He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love. In this was manifested the love of God toward us, because that God sent his only begotten Son into the world, that we might live through him. Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved,” he says, and he voice softens, his hand falling to where Mildred and Gwendolyn’s are entwined and squeezing gently. “If God so loved us, we ought also to love one another. No man hath seen God at any time. If we love one another, God dwelleth in us, and his love is perfected in us.”

“The greatest thing you will ever learn,” Father Samuels continues, “is to love, and be loved in return.”

Mildred bites her lip and releases it quickly, feeling Gwendolyn’s eyes on her. A breeze passes through the archway they stand under, and Mildred’s skirts billow around her legs, brush against Gwendolyn’s trousers. 

“You have the rings?”

Gwendolyn and Mildred blink at him for a moment. “Oh!” Gwendolyn says suddenly, “oh, yes.”

She reaches into her pocket. Mildred looks around in alarm, and Violet reappears, her bouquet still in hand, ring hung around a spine of sage flower. “Thank you,” she utters to Violet, blush deepening in her cheeks. 

They each hold a ring in their right hand, left hands wound together. 

“The ring is a symbol of the unbroken circle of love,” Father Samuel starts, and his voice is so tender it causes Mildred pain. “Love freely given has no beginning and no end, no giver and no receiver, for each is the giver and each is the receiver. May these rings always remind you of the vows you have taken. Mildred?”

She looks to him and he nods once, offering the Bible. “I, Mildred, take thee, Gwendolyn,” he starts, pauses.

“I, Mildred Briggs Ratched, take thee, Gwendolyn Elizabeth Briggs,” she repeats. 

“To be my wife.”

“To be my wife.”

“To have and to hold, in sickness and in health.”

“To have and to hold,” she says, squeezes Gwendolyn’s hand, “in sickness and in health.”

“For richer or poorer, in joy and sorrow, and I promise my love to you.”

“For richer or poorer, in joy and sorrow, and I promise my love to you.” 

Gwendolyn loses herself in Mildred’s voice, in the rhythm of it, in the steadiness of her eyes. She loses herself counting the freckles that shine through her powder, loses herself in the tiny hairs of Mildred’s brow. She feels the ring slide onto her finger, the cool metal warming quickly on her skin. 

Gwendolyn feels herself repeating after the priest, feels herself sliding Mildred’s ring back where it belongs, but she remains lost in Mildred. She remains lost in her smile, in the tiny lashes that guard her eyes, in the way tiny strands of hair are coming loose from her perfect coiffure. 

“Bless this marriage, O God,” Father Samuel says, and Gwendolyn blinks to break herself free. “As they continue their journey down the road of life together.” He smiles at them both, squeezes their left hands. “Whatever that may bring. Watch over them, and keep their bond as strong as the foundation you have laid between them.” 

He turns to the gathered group, grins out over the tear-stained faces. “I’ll keep this short, dear friends— let us turn to the Lord and pray that he will bless this couple as they unite in holy matrimony today. Father, you have made the union of two souls holy; look with love upon this couple and fill them with that same love, honor, and respect. May the commitment they make today be sacred for all eternity. We ask this blessing for them in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

He crosses himself, and so do they all, murmured echos rolling past. 

“By the power vested in me by the Almighty God,” Father Samuel grins, laughter bubbling in his chest, “I now pronounce you joyfully wed. Gwendolyn, please—“ 

Gwendolyn scoops Mildred to her before he can finish, wraps one arm around her waist and cups the back of her head with the other hand. Mildred melts against her, slides her hands up Gwendolyn’s back, under her suit jacket, thumbs pushing slightly at the suspenders. Gwendolyn tips her backwards just a little, just enough to make her giggle into the kiss, and the sound of her laugh and the whoops of their friends is music enough for Gwendolyn. 

Gwendolyn kisses her wife, and Father Samuel laughs through introducing them, and Mildred gazes at her with eyes that hold up the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, when Violet said "dime," she was not saying "ten cents," she was saying "tell me." It pains me that _dime_ does not have an accent, because I certainly think of the Spanish word every time, but I know not everyone does. 
> 
> Gwendolyn's outfit was inspired by [ this one,](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1b/ae/8d/1bae8da77ac77ca3e06507bf6441bae2.jpg) but add a double-breasted jacket in linen, suspenders, and those damn heels she wears when she chases after Mildred at the hospital.  
> Mildred's dress is [ this beauty right here. ](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/7a/19/7d/7a197dc304b47f01ee11d3949bd70405.jpg)
> 
> Breakdown of Mildred's bouquet, with flower symbology:  
> Mexican Sunflower: faith, loyalty, adoration  
> Pineapple sage: healing, protection  
> Dahlias: elegance, creativity, dignity  
> Frangipani (aka Plumeria): love, devotion, love that crosses lifetimes 
> 
> I went through my grandparent's love letters last night, and pulled some quotes from those. You can find them in Mildred's vows.
> 
> Poems referenced in Gwendolyn's vows include:  
> If I Believe - E. E. Cummings  
> somewhere i have never traveled,gladly beyond - E. E. Cummings  
> i carry your heart with me(i carry it in - E. E. Cummings
> 
> If you ship Fernanda and Betsy put your hands in the air say YEEEAAAAHHH


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund Tolleson pays Mildred Briggs Ratched and Gwendolyn Elizabeth Briggs a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Angst, Fluff, PTSD, Nightmares, Guns, Fear, Injury, Character Death, Healing, Murder 
> 
> Well, folks, here it is. The final chapter of this fic. 
> 
> I am quite literally crying, so... ahem. Wow. Yes hello, I love you all, thank you for sticking with me through all this. I'm so sorry it took so long to get done; it turns out Mildred's worst nightmare is also my worst nightmare, which I really should have seen coming but didn't. Anyways, it's here now, and I just want to say I am really quite proud of this and I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Happy reading, babes, see you on the other side <3

The third week of March in 1951 is syrupy-sweet and slow, beginning with excited and nervous energy that carries through the Briggs-Ratched wedding and transforms into a sleepy joy that leaves the world blue-sky bright. 

Betsy catches Mildred’s bouquet and steals it away; she shrieks and laughs, and Fernanda turns a little pale. The bouquet returns to Mildred in a cherry-wood shadowbox, rests gently in the linen lining as the petals of flowers slowly dry. 

It’s a beautiful wedding present. Mildred does not cry until Betsy holds a hand to each of the newlywed’s cheeks, smiles wistfully, and asks them to call when they can. She drives north, back to Lucia State Hospital, and Mildred goes inside as Gwendolyn watches her car disappear. 

Trevor and Andrew leave on Saturday, after a shopping trip where Mildred and Gwendolyn gleefully pretend that they’re buying gifts for their _husbands_. Trevor kisses Gwendolyn’s temple; Andrew hugs an arm around Mildred’s waist. They go back to Lucia with plenty of new things to grace the home Trevor once shared with Gwendolyn. 

He holds Mildred’s shoulders as Andrew finishes packing the car. “You’re never coming back to Lucia, are you?” 

She offers him a small smile, but no words. He nods in understanding, blinks away the tears that spring to his eyes. 

“Well, there will always, _always_ be room in my home for the girl that stole my wife.” 

Mildred laughs, and he kisses her forehead, and for a moment she desperately wants to beg him to stay. But Trevor hugs Gwendolyn tight, the two of them closing their eyes and relaxing against each other, and then Andrew slips behind the driver’s wheel. 

He’s not good at goodbyes. He doesn’t like them. He winks out the window at Mildred and yells, “I’m ‘comin back for you, toots!”

Mildred laughs through tears. 

Sunday is not lonely. It is long, but it is the least lonely Sunday Mildred has ever known. 

They go to Mass early Sunday morning; Gwendolyn tugs Mildred to her feet when the Eucharist begins. 

“I was never confirmed,” Mildred hisses, “I hadn’t even set foot in a church before you.”

Gwendolyn smiles. “You’re pure of heart. You’ll be forgiven. Come with me.” 

Father Samuel waits for them in front of the altar, his eyes crinkling in happy recognition as they kneel before him. “Corpus Christi.”

The wafer is dry and tasteless. The wine is bitter on Mildred’s tongue, burns in her throat a little. She wonders if the body and blood of Christ can really do so much when they feel so inconsequential. 

“Amen,” Gwendolyn breathes, and Mildred repeats her. 

He crosses over them both, leans forward and winks conspiratorially before waving them away. Mildred scrambles up from her knees to follow Gwendolyn. 

Gwendolyn’s eyes close as they walk back to the pew, their pinkies brushing, and there again is that look of peace; this time it’s accompanied by an expression of joy that warms Mildred’s chest. 

If taking Communion makes Gwendolyn happy, Mildred is willing to go to mass much more often. 

They take a long drive after Mass. Gwendolyn rolls down her window and hangs one hand out of it, uses the other to drive. Mildred props herself up against the door on her side and watches. Gwendolyn glances at her and smiles a little crookedly. “What?” 

Mildred’s lips turn up the slightest bit. “I’m just watching my wife.” 

Gwendolyn’s smile widens. She winks at Mildred, and Mildred giggles. 

Mildred and Gwendolyn are more than happy with the gifts they have received from their friends. The birth certificate sits in the billfold of important documents they keep in Mildred’s suitcase; the bouquet in it’s shadowbox sits on the mantlepiece, lights up and seems to glow when the sun sets in the evening. They have memories of a beautiful wedding, memories that Gwendolyn buys a new journal just to write them down. In the evenings she reads their story aloud— she patiently debates differences in their recollections, and corrects her writing when Mildred is right. 

Elina, Violet, and Fernanda come over for dinner Monday evening. They each write what they remember in Gwendolyn’s journal, and Mildred busies herself fixing cocktails for everyone— Gibsons for her _wife_ and Elina, straight whisky for Fernanda, and little mimosas for herself and Violet. 

Gwendolyn finishes making dinner— an overlarge casserole dish of macaroni and cheese bake— and the five ladies settle on the bed. Mildred wrinkles her nose but allows it. They all eat directly from the dish with their own forks and listen to the radio playing from the kitchen. 

The gentle sounds of Etta James peter out as they giggle softly over one of Fernanda’s jokes. It’s not out of the ordinary that the next thing they hear is a male voice narrating in Spanish. It isn’t until Elina turns her head towards the radio with narrowed eyes, until Fernanda takes her hand away from her fork, until the words _Asesino Edmund Tolleson_ come from the smoky voice, that Mildred and Gwendolyn realize anything is wrong. 

“Jesu,” Fernanda breathes, letting her head fall to her hands, suddenly breathless. 

“What?” Gwendolyn asks, her hand moving to Mildred’s knee instinctively. “What’s happened?” 

“Murderer Edmund Tolleson has been captured by the authorities today,” Violet translates, her hand finding Elina’s, her chin wobbling slightly. “He was found— oh, n— no puedo, Reina, no—“ 

Elina turns her head and presses her lips to Violet’s forehead. 

“He was found where?” Mildred urges. She looks to Fernanda, grips at Gwendolyn’s hand, tries to concentrate over the roar of her own heartbeat. 

Fernanda swallows, inhales and exhales a large breath. “He was found in a home shared by two women, recently dead by gunfire— Cristo, Mildred, you don’t want to know.” 

Gwendolyn squeezes her hand, remembers they’re around friends and pulls her close. “What are they going to do?” she asks quietly. 

Fernanda takes another deep breath. “They just said— they just said he’s already been sentenced.” 

“I didn’t know it could work that way,” Gwendolyn returns, a little baffled. “Already? Wasn’t he just… apprehended?” 

Violet’s breaths seem to have evened out a little, and Elina holds her tight, burying her nose in Violet’s curls. “He was already sentenced in California, and— well, the bodies, they’ve found so many—“ 

“Shh,” Elina starts as Violet’s voice breaks. “Shh, Rakas, olet kunnosa— tá bien, estamos bien. Shh.” 

Gwendolyn watches as Mildred’s face contorts through emotions. Her brows pull together, her nostrils flare again and again, her lips bunch against a frown, her eyes go wide and then slide closed. When Gwendolyn lets her hand fall to Mildred’s shoulder, the younger woman jumps, nearly yelps, before she leans in and practically crawls into Gwendolyn’s lap. 

Gwendolyn wraps Mildred up in her arms and looks to Fernanda as the radio host continues to speak. Fernanda swallows again and shudders. “He’s set to be executed by gunfire tomorrow morning.” 

“Oh God,” Mildred gurgles, suddenly feeling very ill. She lurches a little, and Gwendolyn lets her go. She loses time for a few moments— finds herself again kneeling on the bathroom floor. She can’t breathe all of a sudden, and the tile isn’t cold enough, damn this Mexican heat— 

“Niña,” Violet chokes behind her, “tá bien. He— by morning, he’ll be gone. He will. Niña. Niña.”

She rubs at Mildred’s back, sniffling past uneven breaths as Mildred keeps her palms pressed to the bathroom floor. “God, no,” Mildred whimpers, and Violet’s nails scratch her softly through the fabric of her blouse. Gwendolyn appears in the doorway. 

“Would you like to stay the night?” she asks, and her voice is so hesitant it sends Mildred reeling again. “I think… I think we might all feel better.” 

“Yes,” Violet answers immediately. 

Fernanda agrees too. Elina paces around the apartment, argues with Fernanda about which of them should go make sure each of their cars are locked. Gwendolyn turns off the radio. Violet roots around in the liquor cabinet until she finds a bottle of tequila, curses when she can’t find any limes, and pours five shots anyway. 

Mildred eases herself off the bathroom floor and downs her shot, then locks all the doors and windows. She pulls her pistol out of her bedside drawer, ignores the looks of alarm that she earns. 

“Gwendolyn?” she calls, and when she looks, Gwendolyn is already preparing her own pistol.

“Jesu,” Fernanda half-laughs, a little hysterical. “I did not realize I was staying with two vaquero.”

Neither woman responds. 

In the morning, Mildred wakes in a tangle of limbs, tries to lift herself up. She blinks in the sunlight, Gwendolyn pulling at her from one side as Violet snuggles in against her from the other. She tries again and hears a disgruntled noise from wherever Elina is. 

She also sees movement out of the corner of her eye, whips her head around to locate it. Fernanda stands in the kitchen, the side of her curved index finger pressed to her lips and body bent forward as she listens to the radio on the lowest volume. 

“Fernanda?” Mildred asks, voice husky and low. 

She holds a finger up as if to hush Mildred, turns her right ear towards the box. Mildred holds her breath. Fernanda stiffens for a moment, then sags against the counter and snaps the radio off. 

“Se murió.” 

The next twelve hours are a haze of long phone conversations and questions they can’t answer. Elina and Violet go home after breakfast; Fernanda makes her exit when Betsy calls, though she speaks briefly with Betsy before she goes. Betsy cries, though she tries to pretend she isn’t. 

“I don’t like the idea of taking someone’s life,” she hiccups, “but he— that— he took _so much_ from us.” 

Trevor is deadly serious. He asks if they’re alright, if they’re going to stay, if they know anything about the circumstances. He asks if they’ve read the reports— “Perhaps you shouldn’t, dears.”— and whether they would like for him and Andrew to come back down. 

Dinner that night is silent. Neither Gwendolyn nor Mildred feel like speaking. They don’t need to; anger and relief and emptiness are thick in the air. 

And none of it feels real. 

Tuesday morning, Mildred jolts awake from a nightmare, sitting straight up in bed, Gwendolyn’s cheek sliding off her shoulder. 

“You’re alright,” Gwendolyn assures her. “It’s over. You’re okay. We’re here, we’re safe. It’s alright.” 

Mildred wheezes until she believes Gwendolyn again. 

Gwendolyn insists on opening all the windows and doors. “We can’t be afraid of the world,” she says. 

They keep everything open until the sun is well out of the sky, until the dinner out on the back patio has been cleared away and the stars twinkle gently. Mildred sits on her side of the bed and stares at the wall, unblinking, until her eyes start to water and unfocus. 

Gwendolyn’s head lands in her lap and her body jolts back to itself, her hands lifting automatically to comb through Gwendolyn’s hair and rest on her shoulder. She leans forward and places a kiss to Mildred’s hip over the silk of her nightgown. 

“Alright?” she asks, tilting her head back to look up at Mildred’s face. Her eyes flutter as Mildred strokes her jaw. 

“I don’t know,” Mildred admits. “I don’t— I feel like I’m in a dream.”

Gwendolyn’s hand slides around Mildred’s back until she holds her opposite hip. “You’re here, with me,” she reminds Mildred. “This—“ she squeezes at Mildred’s hip— “is real.” 

Mildred doesn’t know that she can agree. Instead, she leans to the side until her lips find Gwendolyn’s hip. “I love you,” she murmurs against the exposed strip of skin.

“I love you.” Gwendolyn turns her head to kiss Mildred’s thigh, this time. “Let’s get some sleep.” 

It isn’t until Thursday afternoon that the dream shatters. 

They’ve just returned from lunch— oysters by the beach, a new restaurant that opened just a few days before their wedding— when their phone rings. It’s Elina, vaguely frantic, and Gwendolyn struggles to understand her at first. 

“Los fusilados?” Gwendolyn asks, baffled. “Elina, what does that mean?”

“He didn’t die,” Elina says, and Mildred can hear her panic through the phone. “Gwendolyn, he’s— he _escaped_.” 

“Oh. Oh G— _Mildred!_ ” 

The floor comes up to meet Mildred. It’s hard, and unforgiving, feels like ice so cold it burns. The world turns on an axis that isn’t there, and it’s all spinning too fast. 

“Make it stop,” she gasps, flinches away from the hands that try to steady her. “Make it stop, I want— I want—“ 

Words. There are words. Words are too hard, make her head hurt, make the world spin, God, when did her hands start shaking like that? Breathe, but air hurts, so don’t breathe, but no air hurts. Everything hurts, bones hurt, how do her bones hurt? Curl in, protect the soft places, be ready to grab and claw and fight. Be ready. Eyes open, be ready— eyes closed, keep it all away. The world spins so fast, how does anyone stay on it? How can she move when she’s pinned to the ground, when there’s no air because she’s being crushed, when she’s buried alive and as good as dead because there’s nothing, she’s never going to make it, never meant to make it, how could she dream of living when this is how it was always going to end— 

Hands, soft, warm, strong, land on her hip and head, and she screams, curls up into herself. 

“Mildred,” Gwendolyn murmurs, mouth close to her ear. Mildred jerks up and smashes into her mouth. She hears Gwendolyn’s teeth crack together. She inhales sharply, but doesn’t pull away. “Mildred, you’re okay. It’s alright. We’re here, you’re safe.” 

“ _No!_ ”

She tries to push up, but her arms give out— weak, never strong enough— 

Gwendolyn drags her halfway off the floor, holds her close. She twitches once and then holds her breath and waits. 

It doesn’t come. No fall, no sharp crack, no push away or door opened. 

“We’re here. We’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Gwendolyn’s voice is so steady, so sure, and Mildred wants to believe. She wants to believe. Please, believe. 

The door opens. He strides through. There’s a gun in his hand and it’s still smoking, who did he shoot? Why is he staring past her? No, not Gwendolyn, not Gwendolyn, please not— 

Gwendolyn’s hand smooths over the side of her face, pulls her hair back. The door is closed. There’s no one else here. Gwendolyn breathes evenly, shushes her and tells her that she’s okay. The door opens. It never swings on it’s hinges, the lock never turns. She can’t keep up, can’t tell what’s— 

Mildred wakes in bed to a warm cloth brushing across her forehead. She whimpers, turns her head, opens her eyes too quickly when fingers stop her from pulling away from the damp cotton. 

“Oh, Mildred,” Gwendolyn breathes, and the cloth drops from her hands. She frames Mildred’s face and touches their foreheads together, and the quickness of both their breaths mingle together in what little space is between them. “My love, my darling, oh—“ 

“Too much,” Mildred croaks, and Gwendolyn sits up above her immediately, fingers disappearing from Mildred’s skin. “No,” she rushes, and it’s a little shrill, “come back, before, before was too much, I’m sorry, come back—“ 

Gwendolyn does, adds pressure behind each touch. “I’m here,” she tells Mildred. “I’m right here. You’re with me.”

Mildred whimpers again and clutches at Gwendolyn’s sides, scrabbles until Gwendolyn rests her full weight on top of Mildred. “I’m so tired.” 

She sobs, and Gwendolyn holds her breath against her own heaving. She tells Mildred she knows, she tells her it isn’t fair to them, she tells her they can go. She tells her it was supposed to be over. She wonders— and she keeps it in her own mind, doesn’t let it slip through— why God would let this happen to them. 

Mildred starts to still again, and Gwendolyn can’t help the panic in her chest. “Don’t go,” she begs. “Don’t go again.”

“I’m so tired,” Mildred repeats, like it’s the only thing she knows how to say. 

“I know. I know, sweetness, I know, but don’t go. Don’t leave me. Stay with me, please, Mildred, please.” 

Mildred tries. She isn’t sure how long she lasts, or how long Gwendolyn lasts. 

In the morning, Mildred is already awake when Gwendolyn stirs, starts to pull herself out of bed. Mildred pretends to be still; she keeps her eyes closed and ears open. She hears two, then three suitcases click open, hears the doors of the wardrobe swing wide, hears Gwendolyn take a deep breath and hold it. 

She sits up and watches as Gwendolyn pulls blouses and dresses and trousers from hangers, folds them carefully, places them gently in leather-cased boxes. 

“What are you doing?”

Her voice is hoarse, cracks halfway through the sentence, and Gwendolyn jumps before she turns. She crawls over the edge of the bed and up to where Mildred has propped herself up. “I’m packing us up. I’m sorry, darling, I thought I could get this all done before you woke, I didn’t mean for you to—“ 

Mildred pitches forward until her temple lands on Gwendolyn’s thigh. “We can’t.”

Gwendolyn blinks, cards her fingers through Mildred’s hair and scratches lightly at her scalp. “Can’t what, my love? I’m sorry, I’m still a little… fuzzy.” 

Mildred nuzzles her thigh. “We can’t run. There’s no use in it. He’ll just find us again.” 

“Or he’ll get captured again,” Gwendolyn murmurs, dragging her fingertips down Mildred’s cheek and jaw. 

“And he’ll escape again,” Mildred returns. There’s no heat in her voice. She isn’t angry, she’s hardly even scared now. She’s tired, and she wants all of this over. “The only way this ends is if—“ 

“No.”

Mildred jerks with the force of Gwendolyn’s voice. Gwendolyn squeezes her shoulder in apology. “You’re not running off after him again, not without me.”

Mildred pushes herself up to sitting and cups Gwendolyn’s cheek. “That wasn’t the plan.”

Gwendolyn stares at her, face still marked with the lines of her hand trapped between her cheek and her pillow. Her eyes are still tinged with sleep. Her ocean-blues flit between Mildred’s eyes, trying to decipher her thoughts, but she waits patiently even as little stress lines appear on her forehead. 

Mildred reaches up to smooth those out. Her hand still shakes, and she hates that, but Gwendolyn doesn’t sneer at it. She doesn’t judge, and Mildred loves her for it. 

“The plan,” she starts again, “is to stop hiding.” 

Gwendolyn doesn’t like the plan. There’s arguing, voices that cycle between hushed and fever-pitch, touches that push away and pull close. Gwendolyn calls Mildred’s idea reckless and dangerous and stupid. Mildred says that she’s tired of living in constant fear, waiting to die. That life isn’t worth living if she has to live it under the shadow of death. That they ought to be making the best of things, living unashamedly, enjoying life rather than fearing it.

“We can’t do that,” Gwendolyn bites back. “Besides—“

“You’re the one who taught me that!” 

She doesn’t mean to yell, to point a shaking finger at Gwendolyn, to accuse her from halfway across the room. But silence falls over them, and she can’t bring herself to move forward. Gwendolyn stares at her for a long moment. 

“The only way this— _this_ ends,” Mildred says, voice dropping enough that Gwendolyn pitches forward to hear her, “is he finishes me, or I finish him.”

Gwendolyn’s eyes close and her face twitches as if she’s in pain. Mildred’s feet unroot themselves from the floor. She goes to Gwendolyn, wraps her hands around the strawberry-blonde’s shoulders, tries to smile. “I have you,” she breathes, “alive, and well, and as my wife. I don’t intend to cut our vows short. I just want to start living.”

Gwendolyn searches Mildred’s face for a long moment, and Mildred can feel her resolve slipping. She’s relieved when Gwendolyn pulls her close, buries her face in Mildred’s neck as her arms wrap around Mildred’s waist, as Mildred slides her hands across Gwendolyn’s shoulders. 

“I love you,” Gwendolyn utters, and Mildred feels it more than she hears it. 

“I love you,” Mildred echoes. 

They tie a length of red string to their front door. Gwendolyn shakes. Mildred loads their guns, assures herself silently that they’ll never use these again, once Edmund is gone. 

Neither of them feel up to stomaching anything other than the coffee and tea they boil at the stove. Gwendolyn clicks the radio on, winces as it crackles to life. 

They clean, and Mildred closes the suitcases without unpacking them. She slips them into the now-empty spots in the wardrobe. Gwendolyn waters the plants on the back patio and stares out to sea as the Andrews Sisters, Margaret Whiting, Ritchie Valens, and Celia Cruz drift through the speakers. There is no radio host to announce them. 

Mildred is glad. 

Gwendolyn comes back inside as Mildred is putting the kettle on the stove for another pot of tea. She’s thinking on whether it should be chamomile or mint when Gwendolyn’s arms wrap around her waist. 

“More tea?” Gwendolyn asks as her chin comes to rest on Mildred’s shoulder. 

“Yes,” Mildred answers, hardly louder than a whisper. “Do you have a preference?” 

“I think mint.”

“Grab it for me?” 

As Gwendolyn reaches up to the cabinet above Mildred’s left shoulder, a brass band blares the beginning notes over the radio. She’s just pulled the box of mint tea bags down, returned her chin to Mildred’s shoulder as the brass slides into piano. 

_I put my palms before her eyes, and she told me my truth…_

The singer’s voice is crackly, and it isn’t just the radio. There’s a smoky quality to his voice, a rattle that won’t quite go away, but not an unpleasant one. 

_She’s a liar, she has no clue; you’re the one thing I will not lose._

Mildred leans back into Gwendolyn. Her body goes heavy, her heads tips back against Gwendolyn’s shoulder. Both of her arms wrap tightly around Mildred’s waist, squeeze without letting go. 

_I’ll turn the tide, pull down the moon, run rivers dry, battle fate for you—_

Gwendolyn presses a kiss to Mildred’s cheek. Mildred lets out a tiny breath, sucks another back in, ignores the stove and the tea and the kettle in favor of tucking her fingers in against Gwendolyn’s arms. The brass echoes their initial theme in the distance, gentle and warming, just like Gwendolyn’s presence. 

Gwendolyn would do anything for Mildred, she knows. Gwendolyn would harness the stars if Mildred asked. Any task is possible, when it needs doing for Mildred, when Gwendolyn commits herself to it. Mildred loves her, loves her fire and her strength and her ability to do so much more than Mildred thinks should be possible. 

She loves Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn loves her, and she would do anything to keep Gwendolyn happy and safe. 

_Let’s burn the pages, we’ll start anew, right through the ages, to prove: Fate don’t know you like I do._

Mildred’s breath catches in her throat— she turns her head so that her nose is pressed to Gwendolyn’s face, tries to breathe in her smell. Gwendolyn rocks them side to side, so gently it hurts, and Mildred refuses to give in to the tears that sting behind her eyes. 

Gwendolyn, her home; the _big thing_ she’d spent so much of her life trying to make everything perfect for. Gwendolyn, the one thing she never could have predicted, the one gift Fate had ever given her. 

Gwendolyn, her wife. 

_No other hope for me, you’re my destiny; won’t go nowhere without you._

Gwendolyn breathes out a shaky little exhale and Mildred squeezes at her arm. She’s about to speak when Gwendolyn hushes her, barely any air in her lungs, palm coming up to cup at the left side of Mildred’s ribcage. Her hand is warm, and it doesn’t shake as badly as it did this morning. At this point it’s the lack of calories in anything they’ve consumed. 

Mildred decides she’ll ask Gwendolyn to try soup. She doesn’t know if she’ll eat too, but she has to try for Gwendolyn. 

Gwendolyn, who stands so solidly behind her, who lets her lean and give in. Gwendolyn, who is the whole universe, who is everything. 

_You’re my fire, that much is true. You’re the one thing I will not lose._

Mildred won’t. She won’t lose Gwendolyn, she can’t. She tightens her fingers against Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn pulls her ever-closer, as if she could meld their bodies together. The brass section swells again as Mildred’s jaw sets. 

_I’ll turn the tide, pull down the moon, run rivers dry, battle fate for you— let’s burn the pages, we’ll start anew, right through the ages, to prove: Fate don’t know you like I do._

Perhaps Mildred and Edmund truly are bound by the red string of Fate. Perhaps it has always been in the cards, this ending, destined from the moment she set foot on this Earth. Perhaps her movements, Edmund’s, had all been pre-ordained. 

Mildred doesn’t care. 

Mildred has scissors, and she’s not afraid to use them. 

She turns in Gwendolyn’s arms— has to struggle to do so, Gwendolyn holds her so tightly— as the singer’s voice crests the top of his range, nearly howls over the crescendo of the band backing him. She wraps her arms around Gwendolyn’s shoulders and threads a hand through Gwendolyn’s hair. 

Gwendolyn tucks her face into the crook of Mildred’s neck; her breath is warm and stuttering over Mildred’s collarbones as the music quiets for a moment. 

_You’re my fire, they have no clue. You’re the one thing I will not lose, I will not lose!_

The song swells as Mildred feels her decision settle in her bones. No, she will not lose Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn will not lose her. 

Whatever it takes, she and Gwendolyn will walk free. If that means her once-brother dies, so be it. 

Mildred will not bend to Fate, not this time. This will not be God’s will, or a pre-ordained sequence of events, some mysterious hand guiding the sands of time; this time, Mildred will decide. This time, Mildred will not bend or break, she will remain strong and upright, and she will win. 

She holds Gwendolyn’s face to her skin, flattens her other hand against the warm expanse of Gwendolyn’s back. Gwendolyn squeezes at her waist again, heaves in a breath and holds it, doesn’t let Mildred go. 

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispers, knows Gwendolyn hears her when she feels tears land on her skin. “I won’t let him. Don’t be afraid.” 

“Mildred.”

It’s so quiet, so close to breaking, and all Mildred can do is massage at the back of Gwendolyn’s neck and hope that’s enough. 

_Know you like I do— Fate don’t know you like I do._

With a spinning cymbal crash and a lingering croon, the song fades away. There’s silence over the radio. The kettle bubbles in the heat of the stove behind Mildred, though it does very little to warm Mildred’s body. Gwendolyn does more. 

The silence hangs in the air. 

“Eso fue Desi Valentine con “Fate Don’t Know You,” y esto es—“ 

Gwendolyn pulls herself free from her spot against Mildred, lets go of her with one hand to turn the radio off. “I think I’ve had enough,” she husks, swiping at her cheeks. Mildred reaches up to frame her face, brush her thumbs gently over the same spots Gwendolyn treats so roughly. 

“I love you,” Mildred offers, tipping her head forward until her forehead rests against the line of Gwendolyn’s nose. 

“I love you,” Gwendolyn answers, noses at her until their lips meet, kisses her soft and slow and sweet. 

The kettle complains lowly, and Gwendolyn pulls back, turning Mildred in her arms with one hand and reaching for their mugs with the other. 

Violet, Elina, and Fernanda join them on Saturday. It’s quiet, at the resort, the drama of the past few days making each of the guests hesitant to step outside their little home-away-from-homes. The five women walk along the beach in broad daylight, hands intertwined. 

It is not as sweet, does not feel as triumphant, as it should be. It tastes of salt, no tang of alcohol to sweeten it. 

Saturday night, Gwendolyn is stiff; she doesn’t move as fluidly, is less of a dancer than Mildred is used to her being. Mildred plies her with chamomile and a long bath, complete with dried lavender and rose petals from Elina and Violet’s garden. She wraps Gwendolyn in her arms, pulls her to leaning back, and Gwendolyn rests her hands against Mildred’s thighs. 

“I…”

Mildred hums a question, kisses her temple to encourage her to speak. She’s about to ask what Gwendolyn wanted to say when she finally speaks again.

“I think I need to go to Mass tomorrow.” 

Mildred swallows. “I’ll come with you.”

Gwendolyn squeezes at her knee as she turns, resting one arm against the side of their tub and bringing the other up to cup Mildred’s cheek. “You don’t have to.” 

Mildred shakes her head, turns to press a kiss to Gwendolyn’s palm. “I don’t mind going, as long as you don’t mind my being a little lost.” 

“Of course I don’t mind,” Gwendolyn says, almost sounds offended at the idea. Mildred smiles back gently. 

“Then we’ll go to Mass tomorrow.”

_In nomine Patris et Filii et Spriritus Sancti._

Gwendolyn touches Mildred’s knee when they need to kneel, her shoulder when they need to stand. She presses their legs together, but says nothing unless it is an answer to the word of the priest. 

Father Samuel’s voice rings clearly through the church. It does very little to warm Mildred’s skin, but it keeps the chill of the pew from seeping into her bones. 

Gwendolyn concentrates. 

_Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie. Et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo._

Gwendolyn glances at Mildred as she rises for Communion. Mildred shakes her head once, sharply, and Gwendolyn frowns, but she does not push. She moves into the line of slowly advancing people. 

Mildred watches her go, watches Father Samuel furrow his brow and glance up to search for Mildred himself. They meet eyes as he crosses Gwendolyn, and she shakes her head once, a little more gently this time. She watches his breath sigh out, watches Gwendolyn accept the body and blood.

Mildred knows she herself is not pure of heart. Not today. Perhaps another time. 

At the end of Mass, Mildred rises as the sea of people around them move to filter slowly out of the pews. Gwendolyn stays put. Mildred touches her shoulder, taps twice in question. Gwendolyn looks up to her, mouth in a straight line, but her eyes gentle. “Just a moment.” 

Mildred thunks back down to the pew, waits as Gwendolyn takes a few steadying breaths. Gwendolyn moves the kneeler to the downward position and takes Mildred’s hand as she moves. 

Mildred would like to remind Gwendolyn of her knees, protest against kneeling when it isn’t part of the service— but by now she knows better, knows that Gwendolyn is going to be praying. She keeps a hold of Gwendolyn’s hand as they kneel, listens to Gwendolyn’s voice. 

_Ave Maria, gratia plena. Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesu. Sancta Maria, mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae._

When Gwendolyn is finished, she lifts her head with her eyes still closed, holds herself still for a moment. Mildred waits. 

Gwendolyn opens her eyes and eases herself back onto the pew. Mildred follows, lifts the kneeler into its upright position. They sit quietly for another few moments, pinkies locked together, faces set forward.

“Alright,” Gwendolyn whispers. “Ready?”

Mildred nods. “Are you?”

Gwendolyn nods.

They stand together, pinkies coming unchained. Gwendolyn kneels when she exits the pew, crosses herself; Mildred watches carefully and repeats the motions. They move to the entrance of the church with a shoulder’s length between them.

Gwendolyn moves through the entrance with no hesitation. Mildred pauses, looks back over her shoulder.

The Mother Mary looks back at her, face tilted down and eyes boring into hers. Her hands are gently held together, palms apart with her fingertips and heels of her hands touching. She’s veiled, and a stoney rosary hangs from her arms.

She somehow judges Mildred, though her expression is unmoving and open. There’s a serene, forgiving smile on her face, but Mildred feels her eyes. She feels the Virgin’s speculation, the question of her character.

Will she be forgiven?

Gwendolyn calls her name and she breaks herself free of her musings, returns to Gwendolyn’s side.

They drive back to their apartment with the radio off. Gwendolyn does not seem peaceful, not the way she normally does. She is resolute, her hand warm and steady on Mildred’s thigh, but she is not peaceful. Mildred tucks one hand between Gwendolyn’s and her own thigh, covers both their hands with the other. 

Gwendolyn only takes her hand back when they arrive at the apartment, using both hands to park. Mildred goes to open her door, but pauses when Gwendolyn doesn’t move. 

She stares ahead, through the windshield, and Mildred is reminded of how she looked in January, on the way back from the cliffside where Wilburn had left their lives permanently. 

“Gwendolyn?”

Gwendolyn stares ahead for a few more moments before turning to Mildred. Her eyes flit back and forth between Mildred’s. She lifts one hand to Mildred’s cheek, still silent, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of her lips. 

“Gwendolyn,” Mildred repeats. Gwendolyn leans forward, touching their foreheads together, and Mildred lets her hands fall to Gwendolyn’s thighs. They share the air between them for a long moment before Gwendolyn tilts her chin and presses her lips to Mildred’s. 

There’s a tinge of desperation to their kiss. Mildred doesn’t know whether Gwendolyn shares her sinking feeling, the instinct to run. She does know that Gwendolyn’s hands are warm against her face, lips firm against her own, their knees bumping against each other. 

Gwendolyn pulls back and Mildred lurches forward slightly. Gwendolyn holds her steady. 

“We have to go inside,” Gwendolyn murmurs. 

“My gun is in my bedside table,” Mildred responds. 

“Loaded?” 

“Yes.” She swallows. “Yours?” 

“Loaded, in the flower pot just by the door.” Her hands slide from Mildred’s face, down her neck and coming to rest on her shoulders. 

“As soon as we go in, grab yours,” Mildred says grimly. Gwendolyn nods, squeezes at her shoulders, then lets Mildred go. 

“Ready?” 

Mildred takes in a deep breath, then nods. Gwendolyn squeezes her hand once. 

“I love you.”

“Don’t,” Mildred hisses, throat squeezing against her own words. “Tell me later.”

Gwendolyn enters their apartment first, ducking immediately and pulling a pistol from the peace lilies that sit by the door. She pops the chamber open, verifies that no bullets are missing, and snaps the chamber back into place. She cocks the trigger and nods to Mildred. 

Her face is hardened, set in a determined mask that disguises the fear that shakes her hands. She’s beautiful, to Mildred. Beautiful and powerful. 

“Go,” she says. 

Mildred nods, clambers over the bed. Three movements have her back on her feet and reaching into her own bedside table as Gwendolyn slowly turns, scanning the apartment. 

“Good,” Mildred breathes, having verified her own pistol is fully loaded. Gwendolyn jumps slightly at the sound, but looks over her shoulder to smile just a bit at Mildred. “Kitchen?”

“No.” 

Mildred moves towards the kitchen, and Gwendolyn moves towards the bathroom. Their shoulders brush as they pass— time slows down, fabric catching against fabric, and neither woman breathes in the silence. 

The kitchen is easy to clear; there are no hiding places, not larger than the occasional lizard or spider that has surprised them. Gwendolyn checks the alcove first, swinging her body around a little clumsily with the gun held up in front of her with straight arms. Mildred emerges from the kitchen, barrel of the gun pointed towards the floor, as Gwendolyn tosses open the bathroom door. 

That’s when Mildred notices gauzy curtains billowing in the breeze. No longer do they look like gentle friends blocking the light from blinding her; now, they look like ghosts, memories she’s spent her life running from. 

“Gwendolyn?” she calls, trying to keep her voice steady. 

“Not quite,” another voice answers, and Mildred’s blood runs cold. 

“Edmund.” 

The curtains ripple again, this time with a more solid shape behind them, and then Edmund Tolleson is in view. 

His face is tilted down; the way he’d once looked up to her from a downcast brow in a sweet, terrified way now beats the eyes of something far more sinister. He smiles with no joy, merely an excuse to bare his teeth. 

His teeth are sharp. His eyes are dark. His hair is far too long. 

“Hello, big sister.” 

The bathroom door swings open again, and Mildred’s hand flings out as if she can stop the motion. But Gwendolyn appears— glorious, brave, beautiful Gwendolyn, who does not startle on seeing Edmund, but lifts her pistol again until it is pointed at his chest. 

“Now, now,” Edmund says, chuckling and reaching for his back pocket. “Let’s not be foolish.” He looks between the two of them as he pulls out his own pistol. “Wouldn’t want anyone finding two kissing fish living together, now, would we?” 

Mildred’s fingers tighten around her pistol. “You have no reason to threaten her, Edmund.” 

“What,” he starts, voice dripping with false sweetness, “no ‘little brother’ for me? Have I not been _good_ enough? Have I not _done_ enough for you, Millie?” 

“You’ve done nothing _for_ Mildred,” Gwendolyn says, voice grim but steady. “You’ve only ever done anything for yourself." 

Edmund turns to Mildred with an incredulous look on his face. He opens both arms, scoffs, his fingers falling to the hollow parts of the trigger. Mildred jerks in anticipation. Gwendolyn’s eyes shift to her briefly and she side steps a little closer. 

“For me? I killed those— those _gawkers_ for me?” he laughs, gesturing between himself and Mildred. 

“Yes,” Mildred hisses, fighting to keep her eyes clear despite the stinging. “You— you’ve always been on your own team.” 

That’s all she manages before her throat closes up, before Edmund starts to laugh hysterically as he points both hands back at himself. As soon as his gun is no longer trained on her, Gwendolyn moves towards Mildred— to protect her or comfort her, perhaps both, Mildred isn’t sure, because she doesn’t get far. Edmund’s right hand snaps back into position and points at Gwendolyn. She freezes in place. 

“Not so fast.” 

Mildred swallows. 

“You know, Millie, you’ve taken a lot from me,” he starts slowly. His voice has dropped, a low growl as he advances. 

“Edmund.”

She’s begging, she knows, but she can’t help it. She can’t— he can’t. 

“You took Dolly from me—“ 

“She almost killed—“ 

“And they killed her!” His voice reverberates through the apartment, shakes the walls. Mildred winces. Gwendolyn’s expression remains stony. His hand shakes as he points his gun at Gwendolyn. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill her right now.” 

“Because she’s suffered enough at your hands,” Mildred answers, desperation eating at the steadiness in her voice. 

“Haven’t you suffered at hers?” Edmund asks Gwendolyn. 

She grits her jaw. “Mildred has never intentionally hurt me.”

He guffaws again, swings the gun towards Mildred. “No,” Gwendolyn cries, and Mildred lurches towards her. Edmund’s laughter rises to a fever-pitch. 

“No, you’re right,” he half-giggles. 

There’s a tense moment, one where he tucks the gun under his own chin and gently squeezes his fingers. One where Mildred thinks he might take care of her biggest quarrel for them. But it passes, and he points the barrel right at the center of Mildred’s chest. 

She takes a deep breath. 

Really, Mildred is not afraid. She’ll pull her trigger at the same time as him, and if she hasn’t the time to duck out of the way, so be it. As long as Edmund is gone, and Gwendolyn survives. 

The world can go on without Mildred. It would stop spinning if Gwendolyn were gone. 

But Edmund turns on his heels, so slowly Mildred thinks of a music box ballerina, and bares his teeth again. Mildred tenses. 

“Perhaps I should end your suffering,” he half-growls. Gwendolyn clenches her jaw again, glances at Mildred. “Dolly was a pretty good shot. I’m better.”

There’s a deafening sound, one that bounces off the walls, sends the shadowbox-bouquet toppling to the floor off the mantlepiece. There’s smoke before Mildred’s eyes, and a gasping, gurgling sound, and she blinks away the watery sting of sharp air. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Gwendolyn gasps. “Mildred, are you—“ 

Mildred has already uncocked her gun and tossed it to the bed by the time Gwendolyn speaks. She falls to her knees, pulls Edmund’s gasping head into her hands. 

“I’m sorry,” she chokes. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t— I couldn’t save you, I tried—“ 

“Why?” he sputters, dark dots of reddish-brown dotting Mildred’s dress. 

“I chose Gwendolyn,” she breathes. She smooths her fingers over his forehead, brushing away the sweat already bubbling to the surface, ignoring the blood that pours from his chest. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to kill Loui—“ 

Why hadn’t she noticed the cold muzzle pressed to her left hip? 

She cries out at the sharp sensation that passes through her. It feels as if part of her body has broken off within her, shattered apart and blown away. It’s wet, too, hot until it’s cold against the muscle of her lower back. 

“ _Mildred!_ ”

Gwendolyn is by her side in an instant, heel pushing at Edmund’s chin as she pushes him away and pulls Mildred into her arms. 

“Gwen—“

“I know, you’re alright,” Gwendolyn shushes her, eyes wide and watering as she pets over Mildred’s hair. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you now, it’s— _help!_ "

Mildred winces at Gwendolyn’s scream. “Gwendolyn,” she wheezes, gestures weakly at the body now on the floor. 

“He’s dead,” Gwendolyn assures her, runs the fingers of one hand through Mildred’s hair as she presses the heel of her hand to Mildred’s hip. “Stay with me, my love, stay— _help!_ ”

“I love you.”

It’s a gasped statement, one Mildred makes as she wraps one hand around Gwendolyn’s wrist and grips. It’s too hard, she knows she’s holding her too tight, that Gwendolyn will bruise. She can’t help it, though. She needs Gwendolyn. 

“Please, Mildred,” Gwendolyn sobs. Mildred reaches up with her still-free hand to swipe at Gwendolyn’s cheeks. 

“Don’t cry,” Mildred sighs. “Please don’t cry, Gwendolyn.”

“Stay with me, darling, stay with me. We’ll get you to help. You’ll be okay.” She nuzzles against Mildred’s fingers again before she yells once more. 

Mildred isn’t sure how many times Gwendolyn screams for her. She knows Gwendolyn’s hands never leave her hip, not even when she stumbles through the Spanish that she needs to tell the men who appear just why she’s been screaming. 

She’s aware of being lifted into a wide car of some sort, of someone telling Gwendolyn to follow along. She cries out, reaches her hand towards Gwendolyn, manages a _please_! 

The medics allow Gwendolyn to ride with Mildred, hold her hand. She presses a kiss to Mildred’s hand, and Mildred whimpers, tries to ask Gwendolyn to make the pain stop, and then the world goes dark. 

She awakens to a voice speaking in Spanish, a second voice translating, and a third, unmistakably Gwendolyn. 

She tries to call for Gwendolyn, but all that comes out is a weak burble. Gwendolyn hears her anyway, spins around and rushes to her side. 

“Mildred,” she breathes, holding Mildred’s left hand in both of hers. “You’re alright, dar—“ she clears her throat, eyes shifting slightly. “Doctor De la Peña is here. Your surgeon—“ 

“Surgeon?” Mildred rasps, brow furrowing. She tries to swallow, coughs, winces as pain wracks her body. 

“Could we get some water?” Gwendolyn asks quietly. Fernanda nods, gives Mildred a small smile, and ducks out of the room. 

“Señora Ratched,” the surgeon begins. She frowns further, wants to say something about her last name being _Briggs_ , but it causes another coughing fit that leaves her teary from pain. Gwendolyn shushes her, relinquishes one hand to brush the hair that sticks to her forehead away. 

Fernanda returns and says something to the surgeon. He looks to her and sighs as she hands a cup of water to Mildred. She crosses her arms, and they discuss something in hushed, insistent tones before he hands a folder to Fernanda. They go back and forth for a moment, and then he leaves. 

Fernanda closes the door behind him and leans against it. “Puta madre, Mija, the— the _fuck_ happened to you?!” Her anxiety and breathlessness make her accent thick, softening the sharper consonants. 

Mildred winces again. “I… we were attacked.” She takes a small sip of the water and closes her eyes at the sting of it. 

“By _Edmund Tolleson_?!” Fernanda half-hisses. 

“Fernanda,” Gwendolyn starts, half berating, half pleading, but Fernanda points a shaking finger at her. 

“No! No,” she hisses, swinging her arm back towards Mildred. “You— you, both of you, you have guns, and then _Edmund Tolleson_ shows up at your _home_ , and you end up in _my_ hospital, and you have the _gall_ —“ 

She cuts off, slaps her hand over her mouth and squeezes her eyes shut. It muffles a sob, but it doesn’t kill the sound. 

“Fernanda,” Mildred rasps. 

Fernanda comes to the side opposite Gwendolyn, wraps her hands around Mildred’s forearms and sobs weakly. Her forehead presses to Mildred’s arm, and Mildred slides her hand from Gwendolyn’s and threads her fingers through Fernanda’s hair. Gwendolyn rises and presses her lips to Mildred’s temple. 

When Fernanda steadies herself, she clears her throat and pushes herself upright, tugging a tissue out of the holder by Mildred’s bed. She walks Mildred and Gwendolyn both through the procedure, tells Mildred about the morphine drip she’s on and tells Gwendolyn when she should call nurses if Fernanda leaves. 

“You can,” Gwendolyn tells her, reaches across Mildred to squeeze her wrist. “If your patients need you, you can go to them. We’ll still be here.”

Fernanda nods. “Just don’t… don’t go bringing in any more murderers.” She swallows and rubs at her eyes. “Please.” 

“Only the one,” Mildred says, letting her head fall back to the pillows behind her. “He’s gone now.” 

Fernanda shakes her head and leaves with a small wave back at Mildred. “Take care of her,” she shoots at Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn nods.

The door opens, the door closes, and Gwendolyn stands, pulling Mildred’s head to her chest. Mildred brings a hand up to grip at her arm. 

“My God, Mildred,” Gwendolyn rasps. “Please don’t _ever_ — I thought I lo—“

She breaks off into sobbing, and Mildred can’t help herself. It’s too much, the fuzziness in her head, the pain in her hip, the trembling of Gwendolyn’s hands around her head, the sound of Gwendolyn sobbing. She lets silent, fat tears roll down her cheeks, grips at Gwendolyn hard enough that she knows there will be bruises there later. 

Gwendolyn pulls herself back and frames Mildred’s face in her hands. “I love you,” she sobs. “I love you, Mildred, I love you.”

“I— love—“ Mildred swallows past a gasp, squeezes her eyes shut as she slides her hands to Gwendolyn’s wrists. “I love you. It’s over.”

Gwendolyn kisses her, fierce and sharp, and it cuts through everything else. It sharpens the world through the morphine, pushes away the pain in her hip, eases the roughness in her throat. She tries to pull Gwendolyn closer, or push up against her, but she’s paralyzed. She’s warm and safe and hurt and she cannot move and she doesn’t want to. 

When Gwendolyn pulls away, Mildred whimpers, squeezes at Gwendolyn’s wrists. “I know,” Gwendolyn murmurs. “We have to— when we get home, sweetheart. I promise. I will never let you go again.” 

Mildred shakes her head. “Don’t go. I can’t— I won’t be able to—“ she grabs for the little paper cup, misses and swipes at empty space. Gwendolyn lets go of her face and hands her the cup of water. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” She brackets Mildred in her arms, one hand beside either hip. “I’m staying right here.” 

Mildred nods furiously. 

And she does; she stays with Mildred, all through the first night of April, and when Mildred wakes on the second, she is asleep in the chair beside Mildred’s bed. “Gwendolyn?” she calls softly, runs her fingers over her own throat. 

Gwendolyn jerks awake, sucking in a breath as her hands flail out from the armchair. She spots Mildred and pushes herself up, reaches for her hand. “Hey, sweetness,” she rasps, squeezes at Mildred’s hand. “You alright?”

“Can I have some water?” Mildred asks, tries to swallow.

Gwendolyn moves quickly, and within moments Mildred is gulping down water fast enough that Gwendolyn is trying to pull the cup away from her. 

“Slow down, darling,” she says. “You’ll hurt yourself. Are you in pain? Should I call the—“ 

Mildred lowers the cup from her lips, swallows, massages at Gwendolyn’s right arm. “I’m alright.” 

Gwendolyn raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. Mildred blushes. 

“It does hurt,” she admits, tightens her hand against Gwendolyn. “Don’t— could— could you get in with me?”

Gwendolyn blinks, confused, before Mildred pats the bed next to her. “Darling, I don’t think there’s room.”

Mildred pouts a little. “I’ll make—“ 

“Don’t you dare move.”

She truly pouts now, slides her hand around Gwendolyn’s arm so that her ring is in plain view. “I want my wife in bed with me,” she complains. 

Gwendolyn closes her eyes and lets out a shaky breath. “That’s cheating,” she murmurs. But she removes the arm of the bed on Mildred’s right side, climbs in carefully, props herself up on her left side. Mildred sags immediately, relaxing for the first time since the previous Monday, nearly cries with it. 

“I want to go home,” she whispers.

“I know, my love,” Gwendolyn whispers back. Her hand strokes down over Mildred’s stomach, soothing her as best she can. “They want to keep you here a few days—“ 

“That’s too long,” Mildred interrupts, whining slightly. Her head is properly spinning; the only thing solidly with her is Gwendolyn, warm and steady, breaths pushing at Mildred’s side. 

“They’d really like to keep you a week,” a voice calls, the door shutting quietly behind them. Mildred and Gwendolyn jump, thumping heavily back down to the pillows when they recognise Fernanda. “I negotiated down to five days, with the promise that I check up on you, since I have prior history of home visits for our dear Missus Briggs.” 

Gwendolyn blinks at her. 

“How do you think I excused running out of the hospital when you called me the last time this little cervatilla went and put herself in danger?” Fernanda asks dryly. 

“Oh,” Gwendolyn chuckles. “Yes, that, that does make sense.” 

Fernanda huffs in amusement. “And how are you, Mija?”

Mildred groans lightly. “It hurts. And my mouth is always so dry. And I— everything is spinny.” 

Fernanda nearly laughs, moves to Mildred’s left side. She pokes at a bag, then actually adjusts it. “You’ll start feeling a little better soon,” she promises. “Your mouth is dry because of the morphine, so the sooner we can get you on something gentler, the better.” 

“Don’t you handle cancer patients?” Mildred interrupts, fixated on the _we_. 

Fernanda snorts. “They couldn’t keep me away from you, Mija. And this one,” she adds, gesturing at Gwendolyn, “would throw an absolute tantrum.” 

“Hey!” 

Fernanda ignores Gwendolyn as Mildred giggles. “So we’ll see how long you can go, but you have to be honest about your pain. As for the dizziness, well, that’s the morphine too, but you probably could do with a little food.” 

“Please, no thank you,” Mildred responds. Fernanda raises a stern eyebrow. 

“You need to eat. For one, we need to know that you can still have a bowel movement.” Mildred looks horrified. “Morphine is a wonderful drug,” Fernanda says, “but it has…many side effects.” 

She talks Mildred in to some toast and butter, plus an orange. She offers to bring coffee and a danish for Gwendolyn, too, who accepts. 

“You,” she says as she leaves, pointing at Gwendolyn again, “ought to be out of that bed by the time I get back.” Her face goes grim for a moment before she forces it to be light again. “Stop jostling my patient.” 

Gwendolyn does remove herself, plying Mildred with a kiss when she complains. She spends the next five minutes pressing her lips to each of Mildred’s fingertips, moving to Mildred’s left side again as she kisses those fingers. Fernanda returns and nods in approval at the change of position. 

“You may want to move to the right,” she says gently. “Someone will need to check the wound.” 

Mildred eats, albeit slowly. By the time she’s had half of her buttered toast, Gwendolyn has finished both her coffee and her danish, and has started to peel Mildred’s orange for her. Mildred watches fondly. 

She’s barely finished the orange when the door slams open, startling them both. Violet stands in the doorway, eyes wide and full of tears.

“Niña,” she sobs, and Elina pushes her forward slightly, closes the door behind both of them. She rushes to Mildred’s right, takes her hand and presses kiss after kiss to her knuckles. Mildred blushes bright red as she cries. 

“I’m alright,” she utters, “really, I’m fine.” 

“You’re on a morphine drip, Muru, and god knows what else,” Elina scolds. “You were shot, you’re not—“ 

Her voice breaks, and she looks up at the ceiling, blinks at the too-bright lights. 

“I’m alright now,” Mildred clarifies, settles. Elina shakes her head and Violet sobs, still clutching Mildred’s right hand. Gwendolyn reaches a hand across Mildred’s body, and Elina is quick to grab it, white-knuckle her grip. 

They pull two chairs in from the hallway, sit at Mildred’s right and ask what happened, whether it was really Edmund Tolleson that shot her, why he would come for her, why weren’t they more surprised? 

Mildred and Gwendolyn share a long look before Gwendolyn kisses her knuckles and says, “Perhaps we should tell them.”

“I want Fernanda here,” Mildred says. It isn’t a no.

When the nurse comes by to check Mildred’s bandages and wrap her in new ones, Gwendolyn asks if they can speak to Fernanda. The nurse furrows her brow, but nods, briskly finishes her task and sets Mildred back down. Fernanda is there seconds later, asking what the problem is. 

“I need to tell you something,” Mildred starts, grabs for Gwendolyn’s hand. Gwendolyn wraps her left arm around Mildred’s shoulders, laces her right hand together with Mildred’s left. Their friends lean in, varied levels of concern on their faces. 

“I told you about the homes I grew up in— when I was an orphan. Well, in some of those homes, I— I wasn’t alone.”

She tells them of meeting Edmund, of the social worker who bound them together so they would have one person on whom they could rely. She tells them of Edmund’s murder in self defense, though she doesn’t clarify the motive any further; she tells them of searching for Edmund for years only to lose him again. She tells them of finally finding him, of his choosing his own motivations over a solid plan, of his partner in crime shooting Gwendolyn. She tells them of his escape, of his hunting her.

She tells them it wasn’t a kidnapping, when she left Gwendolyn last summer. She tells them about Louise in the forest. She tells them about the dark, foreboding feeling she and Gwendolyn both felt coming home from Mass. She tells them that she shot and killed a murderer. 

“Good,” Elina half-growls, and it reminds her of Gwendolyn. Violet sobs again, lets her forehead fall to Mildred’s forearm as she grips at Mildred’s uninjured leg. 

“You aren’t going to stay, are you?” Fernanda asks slowly. 

“I…” Mildred swallows thickly. “I’m not sure we can.”

“I don’t think it would be wise to stay.” Fernanda’s mouth is set in a grim line, her eyes a little stony. “They might trace the— the woman in the woods to you. Tolleson they will write off as self-defense, probably laud you as a hero, but…” 

“You’re right,” Gwendolyn says, then turns to Mildred. “But you need to heal first.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Mildred insists. Gwendolyn frames her face again. 

“We’re not running anymore. We have time.”

Mildred’s world spins, and Gwendolyn is the epicenter of it all, the only steady thing in a swimming sea of antiseptic-smell and too-bright lights. 

Fernanda convinces Mildred to let Gwendolyn go back to their apartment and freshen up. Elina goes with Gwendolyn, promises Mildred to keep her safe, reminds Gwendolyn that her father ran a butcher’s shop and she has experience with cleaning blood off of hardwood floors. Violet stays with Mildred, finally seems to run out of tears. 

“Niña,” she husks, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, “when Fernanda called us— oh, Mildred, I was so _scared_."

Mildred offers her a weak smile as Fernanda checks her morphine levels. “Do you know what this drug does to you?” she asks, and Violet shakes her head with a weak smile. “It makes you dizzy, and it sucks all the moisture out of your mouth, and it _constipates_ you. They have to make sure I can have a bowel movement before I’m allowed to leave here.” 

Violet’s eyes go wide before she starts giggling, and it’s a relief to know she’s still capable of laughter. 

“Why,” Mildred whines, playing up the pathetic part of herself, “am I on a morphine drip if it is a tool designed for my humiliation?” 

“Pobrecita,” Violet simpers, giggling through it, places a kiss on Mildred’s forehead. 

There are more visits from nurses, where Violet acts as an amiable translator, and Mildred is reminded of how absolutely terrible she is with Spanish. She nearly sobs with relief when Gwendolyn returns. 

Gwendolyn comes to her, smelling of lavender and old smoke and freshly ground coffee, the spring-like smell of her shampoo still lingering in her hair. There’s no coppery scent to her anymore, and she’s not wearing that awful blood-stained blouse. 

Gwendolyn kisses her forehead and lays a gentle hand over her stomach. “Elina suggested I bring Betsy’s gift,” she murmurs against Mildred’s skin.

“It fell,” Mildred gasps, remembering the shot, the way her life seemed to shake apart at the seams and tumble down around her. “Oh, no, it—“ 

“Was fine,” Gwendolyn assures her. “Look, not even a crack.”

She isn’t lying; the box is fully intact, and the flowers are so well-placed that they’ve hardly moved. 

“Where would you like it?”

She places the box on a little side table in the far corner of Mildred’s little room. It’s not as high up as Mildred would like it to be, and gets blocked by doctors and nurses who don’t notice it, but it’s there. Knowing it’s there is almost enough. 

Mildred is taken off morphine on day three, insists she’s ready for it. She does alright at first, but soon the pain is searing, and she shifts uncomfortably in bed and whines past tears in her eyes. Gwendolyn dabs at her forehead with a cool towel and massages her hands. 

Violet and Elina help Mildred take a walk down the nearest few hallways on day four. It hurts, but she grits her teeth and moves through it, doesn’t cry until she’s back in her room and Gwendolyn has returned from another trip to their apartment. The non-morphine medications don’t help as much, but her bandages need to be changed less often, and as it turns out, her digestive system still works just fine. 

Mildred wakes on day five of her hospital stay to Gwendolyn asleep in the armchair again, her book of E. E. Cummings’ collected works propped open on her stomach. She watches her fondly for a few moments— takes in the way her breath cycles in and out through her parted lips, the little lines next to her eyes and above her brow that smooth out in her sleep, the gentle curl of her fingers keeping her book loosely in place. 

She’s shaken from her observation as Fernanda opens the door. “Oh, good morning,” she whispers, “I was just…”

She fades off as she gestures to the folder in her hands. Mildred smiles and holds out a hand to her. 

Fernanda comes to her side, settles in one of the two chairs that Elina and Violet had retrieved days ago. Mildred squeezes her hand, searches Fernanda’s face for a few moments before she speaks. “Do I get to go home today?”

Fernanda smiles back, a little wistfully. “You’ll spend the day here, and one more night, and in the morning we’ll let you go.” She chuckles at Mildred’s pout. “Mija, you were shot in the hip, remember?” 

Fernanda straightens after that, clears her throat. “Should we wake Gwendolyn?” 

“For what?” Mildred asks, glancing over. 

“I wanted to tell you about— about the effect of…” she has to clear her throat again, roll her head a little. “The effect of the gunshot.” 

“Oh.” Mildred glances at Gwendolyn again. “No, let her rest. I can tell her later.” 

Fernanda fixes her with a skeptical look, one that tells Mildred she knows there will be no discussing the gunshot with Gwendolyn. But she sighs, opens the folder she’d carried into the room. 

“You were lucky the bullet didn’t enter any lower,” Fernanda starts, and Mildred nods. “If it had, I’m not sure we could have saved your hip. The joint would certainly be gone— I don’t know how it happened, but… you got lucky, Mija.”

Mildred nods again, sniffles quietly. 

“As it is, the bullet entered just above your hipbone. It still broke off a few pieces of bone, which our surgeons removed so that they wouldn’t cause you issues further down the line. You may still need further surgeries, when this is all said and done, to help with scar tissue and the like. This will…” Fernanda looks down. 

“It’s alright,” Mildred tells her, bringing a hand to her wrist and squeezing gently. “You can tell me.”

“Your hip is going to hurt for the rest of your life,” Fernanda says apologetically. “It’s— you may walk with a limp, some days, and particularly during the colder months. You’re strong, you may be able to work past it, and I do recommend regular exercise— a home with stairs, perhaps,” she suggests, and Mildred doesn’t comment on the watery sheen to her eyes. Fernanda takes a deep breath. “It will scar. Both sides. Nothing we could do about that.”

“I already have plenty of those,” Mildred half-jokes. 

Fernanda does not smile. “I know.” Mildred frowns and she closes her eyes before speaking again. “I was in the room. They did try not to add any more, but—“ 

“It’s alright, Fernanda,” Mildred repeats. Fernanda opens her eyes. “I think this is the last one I’ll be getting.” 

“It had better be.” 

There’s a long moment of silence, and Fernanda’s voice is much smaller than Mildred has ever heard it when she speaks again. 

“You will write, won’t you?”

Mildred sucks a breath in through her teeth as Fernanda continues, a little quicker. “If it’s all done, and you’re safe, will you? Write? I just— I’ve become rather fond of you, both of you, and to think this might be the last time we—“ 

Mildred pushes herself up, wincing, and pulls Fernanda’s face up. “Of _course_ we’ll write, Fernanda.” She swallows, rubs her face on her upper arm to try and rid herself of her tears. “We could never just— just leave, of course we’ll write, and call, and maybe even visit. Or you can visit us, when we’re settled.” 

Fernanda nods, tears in her own eyes. 

“Are you two alright?” 

Gwendolyn’s voice is rough and thick, still sleep-laden, but she rubs at one eye and rests her free hand on Mildred’s thigh. 

Mildred nods, relinquishing Fernanda’s face so the doctor can brush at her own cheeks. “Just promising to write. That’s all.” 

Gwendolyn scoffs. “As if we’d just _leave_.” 

Mildred raises an eyebrow at Fernanda, who huffs and laughs a little tearily. “Yeah, alright, thank you.” 

Gwendolyn takes their wedding bouquet back home that afternoon while Violet and Elina keep Mildred company. Violet fusses with the room, tries to make it tidy, gather the few things Mildred has into a neat little pile. “Where do you think you’ll go?” she asks, false cheeriness threaded through her words.

“Someplace where it snows, in the winter,” Mildred says. “Where Gwendolyn can get a job with an elected, and maybe I can go back to nursing, but somewhere that has warm summers and snow at Christmastime.”

“I’ve never seen snow,” Violet sighs wistfully.

“Then you’ll have to visit in the winter,” Mildred says firmly.

“She’ll freeze to death,” Elina drawls, then pats Mildred’s hand. “Of course we’ll visit. Are you ready to walk?”

Gwendolyn returns with a fresh dress for Mildred to wear the next morning, listens carefully to Fernanda’s translations of nurses who instruct her on how to change bandages and how often they need to be refreshed. She asks questions about how Mildred should bathe, if there are exercises they should do, which painkillers should be used for which pains. 

In the morning, Fernanda comes by with paperwork, reminds Mildred to take it easy, and that she’ll be visiting on the 8th and 11th, and that they’ll see from there. Gwendolyn convinces Mildred to allow herself to be wheeled out of the hospital, compromises and says they won’t pack the chair in the car. 

They make it about halfway home before Gwendolyn pulls over, scoots closer to Mildred, and kisses her. She refuses to let Mildred move, and doesn’t push past her gentle kisses, but she mumbles between them that she couldn’t wait any longer, that it’s been absolute torture waiting this long. 

When they do arrive home, Mildred is grateful that Fridays tend to be quiet in their complex. She takes far longer than she would like to hobble from the car to their front door, and then hesitates there. 

“Fernanda and I cleaned,” Gwendolyn murmurs against her. “There’s no blood. We made sure of it.”

Mildred sucks in a deep breath and holds it before she nods. Gwendolyn pushes the door open. 

Mildred nearly collapses with relief on walking through their door. She does let out a sob, clings to Gwendolyn, who eases her down to Gwendolyn’s side of their bed. “Easy, darling,” she murmurs, “you’re alright. I’ve got you, sweetness, breathe with me, there’s a good girl. Why don’t I get you some tea, hmm?”

Gwendolyn unpacks the few things they received at the hospital, mutters directions to herself as she places bottles of pills on their bathroom counter. The kettle whistles and she bolts across the apartment, lets loose a sharp little “No!” when Mildred tries to move for it herself. 

Mildred pouts, but accepts her tea. “We’ll do your exercises later,” Gwendolyn murmurs, sidling up to Mildred’s right. Mildred leans into her immediately. 

“I can think of more fun things to do,” Mildred grumbles between sips. 

“You are injured, my love,” Gwendolyn half-chuckles, half-scolds. 

“Then we’ll have to be careful, won’t we?”

Gwendolyn rolls her eyes at Mildred’s grin. “I suppose I’m glad you’re feeling up to that. You are incorrigible.” 

“You love me for it,” she retorts over the rim of her mug.

“Yes, I do, very much so.”

Mildred wakes suddenly on the seventh, sweat at her temples and breath heaving. Gwendolyn is already awake beside her, cooing and shushing. “We can’t stay here,” Mildred gasps. “We can’t stay. We have to go.” 

Gwendolyn nods, presses a kiss to her temple, brushes back her sweat-slicked hair. “Alright, my love.” 

Gwendolyn packs their apartment as Mildred directs. It takes them several days, a little reorganizing of suitcases, and one argument where Mildred insists they don’t need to buy a new suitcase and Gwendolyn points out that there is no more room. Fernanda moves around Mildred silently as they argue, poking and prodding. “I can stay here while Gwendolyn goes,” she suggests when Mildred cuts herself off with a whine. 

Their apartment is completely packed when Mildred wakes on the 16th with another nightmare. Five days isn’t a bad stretch, Gwendolyn reminds her, but Mildred is tired of the terror. Gwendolyn helps her from bed and they walk in circles around their little home, four suitcases by the door. Gwendolyn keeps one open, which they pull clothes from and return them there when the clothes are clean again. 

On the 18th, Mildred wakes silently from her nightmare, spends a few moments staring at Gwendolyn in the moonlight. She’s peaceful in her sleep, almost the same way she had been in the few days of bliss after their wedding. 

Mildred cannot close her eyes again, cannot see the blood-speckled grimace on Edmund’s face as he pulls the trigger. So she pushes herself up slowly and rises. She focuses on walking slowly and evenly— put the same amount on pressure on your left leg, best way to prevent a limp— towards the door, retrieves Gwendolyn’s car key. 

Gwendolyn is half-frantic when she returns from the car, sitting up in bed and flinging her covers off before she spots Mildred. “What in the _world,_ ” she starts, but it chokes off. 

Mildred stands stunned at their door. “I was taking our suitcases out.” 

“Goddammit, Mildred,” Gwendolyn curses, pushing herself up and towards her wife. She gathers Mildred in her arms, and Mildred can feel her shaking, notes the way her stomach drops guiltily. “We can do that later. Come back to bed.” 

Her hip feels better every day. It’s still not perfect by the 21st, but her bandages only have to be changed once a day by then, and she can go for longer walks, even in the sand. “Where would you want to go?” Gwendolyn asks one night between the poems she reads aloud to Mildred. 

_2 little ams, and over them this_

Mildred noses against Gwendolyn’s chest, listening to her heartbeat, closing her eyes at the feeling of Mildred’s fingers in her hair, holding her close. “I don’t think I can go back to Lucia.” 

“No,” Gwendolyn agrees, “I don’t think I could either.” 

“I rather like the ocean.” 

Gwendolyn smiles and kisses the top of her head. “Then we’ll stick to a coast. We could go north, to Portland, pass through Lucia and say hello to Betsy and Andrew and Trevor.” 

“I think—“ Mildred swallows. “I think something new, rather.” 

“Something new, then,” Gwendolyn nods. “We used to take the train down to New York, when I was young. We might try that. Or New Jersey. We could even go all the way to New England.” 

“Something new,” Mildred repeats, turns her head into Gwendolyn’s chest to stifle a yawn. Gwendolyn chuckles and scratches lightly at her scalp. 

On the 24th, Elina and Violet and Fernanda come by for one last dinner. Violet brings tamales, Elina brings little buns with cinnamon and cardamom, and Fernanda brings little palm-shaped cookies she calls “orejas.” Gwendolyn slices and heats some carrots, insists that everyone have at least a few so that none of them wake up with stomach aches. 

They stay up late into the night, walking slowly on the beach and pausing when Mildred asks. Elina teaches her how to skip the smoother shells off of the waves, collects handfuls of them and presses them in to Mildred’s hands. “When you miss the sweltering heat here,” she teases gently, “look on these. And then call.” 

Fernanda insists on checking Mildred’s hip when they return to the apartment, leaves the other three to move to the back patio. The curtains stay tied back. Fernanda pushes lightly, examines the newly-pink skin. “Still fragile,” she murmurs. “Let Gwendolyn drive some, hmm?” 

Mildred tips forward to touch their foreheads together, and Fernanda lets out a shaky sigh. “Be safe. I know you’ll have lots to do when you arrive, but… call? If you can?” 

“We will,” Mildred assures her. “I’m through with being a ghost. I think I like being among the living.” 

Fernanda nods in approval, then clears her throat. “And you keep on Gwendolyn to stay healthy.” 

Mildred laughs. 

Violet is her cheerful self until they go to leave, the clock on the kitchen wall reading somewhere close to four in the morning. “Niña, papi,” she starts, and then breaks into sobs. 

“Oh, Violet,” Gwendolyn coos, pulls the sobbing woman to them. Mildred rests her head on Violet’s shaking shoulder. “We’re not disappearing. We’ll write, and we’ll call, and we’ll find some time to visit, and you’ll come visit us, won’t we?” 

“We will,” Mildred says, and Violet nods against them. 

“Oh, Dio,” she laughs at herself, “I told myself I was not going to cry.” 

Gwendolyn shrugs and kisses her cheek. Mildred does the same. She kisses them both, sniffling, and tucks herself back into Elina’s waiting arms. 

“Be careful,” Elina calls to them. 

“Always,” Gwendolyn returns. 

Fernanda points at Mildred and wags her finger, says nothing. Mildred nods, laces her fingers together with Gwendolyn’s. 

Their friends pull away. Gwendolyn turns to go inside, and Mildred watches their cars until the brake lights blend into the black night. 

“Darling?” Gwendolyn calls, and Mildred turns and goes to her. 

They spend the 25th of April making final preparations, cleaning the apartment one last time, staring out over the water at different points of the day. “I wish I had a camera,” Gwendolyn breathes. 

“Write it down,” Mildred murmurs, coming outside with her journal and a cup of tea. She makes a mental note to buy Gwendolyn a camera for her birthday in May. Gwendolyn smiles at her, sunshine in her smile despite the stress of the past months, and Mildred feels her heart clench. 

That night they walk along the beach again, hands intertwined as the water laps at their toes. It reminds Mildred of the night before their wedding, and she smiles. 

Gwendolyn kisses the back of her hand. “Remember?” she asks, gesturing to the alcove that held them too many times to count. 

“Every single moment,” Mildred murmurs, kisses Gwendolyn’s knuckles. Gwendolyn pulls her there, frames Mildred’s face gently, waits for Mildred to wrap her arms around Gwendolyn’s waist before she leans in to press their lips together. Mildred feels as if she could float away, could spend the rest of her life in this moment only. 

“I’ll have to write this down,” Gwendolyn says, still so close that their lips brush as she speaks. 

Mildred smiles and rubs their noses together. “I’ll sketch it below.” 

“I’d like that.” 

In the morning, just before sunrise, they have coffee on the back patio one last time. Mildred sits in Gwendolyn’s lap. Gwendolyn makes note of this memory in her journal, and Mildred sketches the view in light, scratchy pencil. When they finish, Gwendolyn takes the poinsettia to the back seat of their car and brackets it in safely. Mildred writes a note to the caretakers of the resort, thanks them for their hospitality, pays their final bill and turns in their keys. 

Gwendolyn fiddles with the radio as Mildred slips into the driver’s seat. “Are you sure you’re alright to drive first?” she asks. 

Mildred shrugs. “I’ll be alright.” 

The radio crackles to life, mournful trumpets quickly fading into swirling strings and a bouncing flute. 

_There was a boy, a very strange, enchanted boy—_

Mildred reaches for Gwendolyn’s hand and squeezes. Gwendolyn smiles back at her. 

_A little shy, and sad of eye, but very wise was he._

“It’ll be an adventure,” Gwendolyn breathes. 

Mildred pulls the car out of the parking lot, stops at the exit to turn and kiss Gwendolyn quickly. “I don’t think I said good morning,” she murmurs, and Gwendolyn chuckles, kisses her again. 

“Well, good morning.” 

“Mmm.” She pushes down on the gas pedal, and Gwendolyn shakes their map open. “I think I’m ready for something new, my sweet.” 

Gwendolyn’s smile widens at the pet name, a new one that had come into Mildred’s vocabulary about a month ago. 

_And while we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this he said to me:_

Nat King Cole’s voice croons at them through the car speakers, and Mildred and Gwendolyn listen in silence as his piano echoes the romantic mystery behind his words. 

“I love you,” Mildred offers as the sun turns the sky pink and gold. 

Gwendolyn rests a hand on her thigh. “I love you." 

_The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let's see if I can go in order here: 
> 
> los fusilados: There was a man who escaped being killed by a firing squad execution, which you can read about[ here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JarptyNXHyQ&ab_channel=desivalentinemusic)
> 
> I am begging you to go listen to the song they hold each other to in the kitchen. It sounds like it's straight out of the 50s, and it's so perfect for them that I do not care that it wasn't released until 2016, it went in the fic. They listened to it because it needed to happen, so now [ YOU GO LISTEN PLEASE](https://www.ripleys.com/weird-news/survived-execution/)
> 
> As for the weird little... kissing fish? Thing? Apparently both that and [ "kiki"](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_LGBT_slang_terms#For_lesbians) were euphemisms for lesbians back in the day, but with the connotations kiki has now I went with [ kissing fish. ](https://www.autostraddle.com/20-lesbian-slang-terms-youve-never-heard-before-129728/)
> 
> As it turns out, you can go back in Google Calendar, all the way to at least 1951! Which was immensely helpful, as it helped me find specific dates. And it just so happened to work out that Mildred got shot on the first Sunday of April, which was...April First. I shot Mildred on April first. 
> 
> Surprise, bitch, thought you'd seen the last of me!! 
> 
> They leave for New York on the 26th, the last Thursday in April. That leads directly into [ Sugar High,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26954959) so if you need more of this story you can pop there. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this wild-ass journey as much as I have. Thank you for sticking with me. Check in below, love y'all <3


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 30 years later finds Mildred and Gwendolyn dancing in a kitchen to some of the latest music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: fluff
> 
> SURPRISE, BITCH, BET YOU THOUGHT YOU'D SEEN THE LAST OF ME!!!!
> 
> Happy New Year's Eve, my darlings! I've had this epilogue planned the entire time I've been writing this fic, and it's only grown since I conceptualized it. 
> 
> Not much else to say, here, other than enjoy!

October 14th, 1981 finds Mildred asleep later than usual, bundled under blankets in the cold morning air. Despite their best efforts, her bedroom with Gwendolyn never seemed to retain heat in the cooler months of the year. She grumbles at waking without her personal space heater. 

How Gwendolyn manages to stay so warm all the time, even at 81 years of age, will always baffle Mildred. 

She pushes herself out of bed, winces at the twinge in her hip, spots a thick and fluffy robe laid out over the chair that sits next to their bedroom door. She pulls it to her nose and breathes deeply. 

_Lavender, old smoke, freshly ground coffee._

Mildred smiles and slips her arms through the soft fabric, shuffles around in search of her slippers. She spots herself in the mirror as she turns to move downstairs, where Gwendolyn is undoubtedly making coffee for them both. 

She has to admit she looks rather well for 70 years old. 

Her hair has streaks of gray running through it, the auburn of her hair fading to a silver-speckled brown. It’s particularly bad around her temples, her sideburns pale shadows that peek out from the hair she wears loose most days. The lines by her eyes and across her brow have deepened, as one might expect— what she hadn’t allowed herself to imagine, when she was in her younger years, was that seven decades of life would find her with smile lines. 

She tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear and smiles at her reflection. 

The Panasonic RE-6278 fills the lower portion of their home with gentle morning buzz. Mildred watches Gwendolyn, leaning against the doorframe, as her wife putters around, tapping gently at the little coffee pot while it drips. 

“Good morning,” Mildred rasps finally, when she’s had her fill of looking. Gwendolyn turns to her with a smile.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she says, moves to Mildred and cups the back of her neck with one hand as she presses a kiss to her forehead. “Glad you wrapped up, it’s cold out there.” 

She moves back to the coffee pot and Mildred frowns, going around her right side to plop herself into a chair by their kitchen table. “You haven’t been outside already, have you?” 

“Only to feed the birds,” Gwendolyn assures her. 

_Colder than average this morning, only 43 degrees, so bundle up if you’re going out!_

Mildred frowns again at the radio. “It’s only going to get colder,” she grumbles, tucking her hands in against her armpits to warm them up. 

Gwendolyn chuckles. “Yes. The farmer’s almanac you gave me said it would be a cold winter.” 

She comes to Mildred’s side, then, drops a kiss to the top of her head as she sets down a mug of coffee. Mildred hums a thank you and wraps her fingers around the warmth of it. Gwendolyn sits catty-corner to her, props her feet up on the legs of Mildred’s chair as she leans back. 

The years have been kind to Gwendolyn, or perhaps she has been kind to them; she has had 81 years of laughter to build the lines by her eyes and her lips, and though there are wrinkles in her forehead, few of them are from any recent stress. Truly, the most stressful thing as of late had been Mildred’s hip replacement last year, which she’s healed from quite nicely. 

Gwendolyn’s hair has gone blonde as the years have gone by, though the hair at her temples and her widow’s peak have turned white. It’s quite charming, really, the pale streaks that she styles to fall evenly on either side of her face. Mildred likes to play with them in the evening hours and twirl them around and between her fingers. 

Her eyes are still blue— bluer than they’ve ever been, growing more and moreso every day. They still light up the room like the sun through a window.

Her hands are still soft, too. Her fingers ache with arthritis when rain is on the horizon, though it’s eased since she and Mildred both finally kicked their smoking habit. But her fingers are gentle and smooth when they reach for Mildred’s wrist. 

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, alright,” Mildred replies after a sip of coffee. “I woke up at half-past-two again, couldn’t tell you why.” At the concern in Gwendolyn’s eyes, she quickly adds, “I don’t remember any nightmares. Just cuddled back up to you and fell right back to sleep.” 

Gwendolyn nods, tugs at one of Mildred’s hands until she can bring it to her lips and press a kiss there. “Your nose was like ice this morning. We ought to move that radiator in the spare room, try to warm our bedroom up before it gets too chilly.” 

Mildred frowns. “What if someone needs it?”

“Darling,” Gwendolyn smiles, and her eyes are so soft Mildred nearly trembles with it after all this time, 30 years of marriage later. “We haven’t seen anyone in need of a place to stay this season. If we do, we can always buy a second one. They’re not that expensive anymore.” 

Mildred sighs, but nods. Gwendolyn flicks her wrist to straighten the paper she’d laid on the table, takes a generous sip of her own coffee as she lifts her reading glasses to her eyes.

Mildred watches her read, doesn’t ask after the news; if it’s something important, Gwendolyn will tell her. The radio croons on beyond them, The Police belting a tune about a woman who does magic with every move. Mildred is nearly finished with her coffee when Gwendolyn gasps in delight and sets the paper down, eyes twinkling behind glass lenses. “Would you look at that!” 

“What?” Mildred asks, leaning forward in her chair. 

“Emily and Alice both on Broadway,” Gwendolyn beams, tapping at the story. “And together! We’ll finally be able to see a show with _both_ of them!” 

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Mildred breathes, a grin taking over her face. “Should we get tickets for opening night?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Gwendolyn replies, moves to her feet. She bends a little, frames Mildred’s face in her hands and grins at her for a moment before pressing a sweet little kiss to her lips. 

Mildred lets her eyes flutter closed, ease back open as Gwendolyn moves through the kitchen searching in drawers for a note pad. Mildred sighs fondly and holds one up from it’s place on the raised counter behind her. “Over here, my sweet.” 

“Oh,” Gwendolyn chuckles at herself, “thank you, lovely.” 

She gives Mildred another kiss for that, scribbles down a note to call each of their girls. 

“Have you heard from Isaac recently?” Mildred asks, neatly re-folding Gwendolyn’s paper. “His birthday is only a few months away, and I don’t know how he’s doing at his new job.” 

Gwendolyn hums. “He adores you, Mildred, whatever you give him will be fine as long as it’s not Christmas themed.”

“Well of course not,” Mildred mutters. “His birthday is on the solstice. And if he adores me, you’re the center of his world.” 

Gwendolyn shoots her a fond, tolerant look. They run through the list of their children: ones they spent years raising, and ones they housed for a few months after finding them homeless and abandoned on park benches in the vastness of New York City. They’d become a safe haven for wayward teens over the years, replacement parents for children who’s families decided a little queerness stripped them of their right to safety and love. 

“And Kelly?” Gwendolyn asks. 

“He goes by Trevor now,” Mildred corrects gently. He’d not come out to Gwendolyn, not yet, but Mildred doesn’t think he’ll mind. 

Gwendolyn’s eyes go bluer with unshed tears. “After our Trevor?” she asks around a tight throat, and Mildred nods as she lifts herself. “Oh, Lord, that— that boy,” she sniffles, hand going to her chest. 

Mildred wraps her fingers around Gwendolyn’s hand. “Is a very lovely young man,” she agrees, leans forward and kisses her wife. 

_— new single from two of the members of Fleetwood Mac, Stevie Nicks and Don Henley, singing Leather and Lace. Snuggle up to someone and let these two serenade you!_

Gwendolyn grins and pecks at Mildred’s lips. “Snuggle up?” 

Mildred snorts. “Well, we could move to the couch.”

Gwendolyn shakes her head and moves Mildred’s arms around her neck, wraps her own arms around Mildred’s waist. “No, it’s Stevie. I want to dance.” 

Mildred knows, by now, that it’s pointless to argue. She rolls her eyes fondly, instead, tilts her head back to watch Gwendolyn as she adjusts to the music-box piano and guitar. 

_Is love so fragile, and the heart so hollow— shatter with words, impossible to follow._

Gwendolyn rocks them side to side, ostensibly with the beat, and Mildred gazes up at her. Time has bent them both a little, but they’ve remained eye to eye. 

_You’re saying I’m fragile, try not to be. I search only for something I can’t see._

Mildred knows why Gwendolyn loves Nicks and her voice— they remind Gwendolyn of Mildred, and she’s said as much, pulling her to dance to nearly every record of Fleetwood Mac’s in their living room, regardless of the drama surrounding the releases. 

It’s charming, really. And Gwendolyn’s hands are warm.

_I have my own life and I am stronger than you know—_

Gwendolyn tips forward to kiss her nose, and Mildred giggles a little. She’s glad that, all those years ago, she’d chosen someone who pushed past the walls she’d put up to protect the little life she’d built. She’s glad that Gwendolyn never doubted her strength, loves her for it.

 _But I carry this feeling, when you walked into my house, that you won’t be walking out the door._

Mildred muses over that as Nicks repeats herself. She’d known, the moment she saw Gwendolyn, that something about the woman was different. That the politician’s Press Secretary would change her life somehow. She’d said as much in her vows, and she means it still. 

Gwendolyn had walked through doors in her heart she hadn’t known existed. She’d never left, and Mildred loves her for it. 

She tucks her forehead into the crook of Gwendolyn’s neck, slides her arms down and around Gwendolyn’s chest. Gwendolyn presses a kiss to her forehead and hums happily. 

_Lovers forever, face to face. My city, your mountain, stay with me, stay._

Mildred shudders a little at the memory of Gwendolyn holding her, begging her to stay, to tell her of her love later. Gwendolyn squeezes her, and Mildred lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. 

She’d go anywhere for Gwendolyn, with Gwendolyn. She had. She’d been to Mexico, across the United States, tolerated road trips through territories she’d rather have flown over, gripped Gwendolyn’s hand through overseas flights to places like London, Paris, Madrid. 

She’d loved every minute of it. She still does. 

_I need you to love me, I need you today. Give to me your leather, take from me my lace._

Really, she’d never stopped needing Gwendolyn. Never stopped needing her love, her presence, her light and warmth. And Gwendolyn had always given her that. For all of Mildred’s faults, Gwendolyn loves her. 

It’s taken years for Mildred to accept it, and she sometimes struggles with it still. But Gwendolyn, patient and kind, is steady for her. 

_You in the moonlight with your sleepy eyes, could you ever love a man like me?_

Gwendolyn sucks a breath in and Mildred tips her head back to look at her face. Her eyes are still watery, and Mildred furrows her brow. 

“Nightcap?” Gwendolyn husks, and Mildred frowns at the memory. 

She still curses herself sometimes for running away, that first night. If they’d started earlier, would Gwendolyn have been injured? Would Mildred have known she didn’t have the ally she thought? Would she have left Lucia early, lived a different life? 

“I love you,” she says instead, and Gwendolyn smiles. “I do.” 

_And you were right: when I walked into your house, I knew I’d never want to leave._

Gwendolyn tells her she’s glad their lives have gone this way. “Look at the life we’ve made,” she murmurs some nights, “how long and lovely it is.” 

_Sometimes I’m a strong man, sometimes cold and scared, and sometimes, I cry._

God, Gwendolyn’s strength. Even now, with all the weight and exhaustion of her years, Gwendolyn withstands everything the world throws at her. She’s strong enough to hold Mildred up, keep her head above water, keep them both upright and proud. 

But the moments she shows Mildred, ones where she’s scared or tired, those are precious. They are ones that only the closest people to her see, and Mildred feels immensely privileged to see them. To be in that closer orbit. 

_But that time I saw you, I knew with you to light my nights, somehow I’d get by._

Gwendolyn tips her head forward and touches their foreheads together. Her blue eyes close, her breath shuddering in and out evenly as her fingers tighten against Mildred’s hips. 

_”Todo se fue.”_

Mildred remembers, all those years ago, insisting they would find a doctor. Finding that doctor, holding Gwendolyn’s hand and hair and shoulders. She remembers the even line of her own lips, the exhaustion in Gwendolyn’s shoulders that eventually lessened. She remembers nights spent holding each other out of fear melting into nights spent holding each other out of gratitude. 

The chorus rolls around again, and Gwendolyn hums along this time. 

“Remember?” she asks in one of the quieter moments, and Mildred chuckles. 

“Every single moment.” 

She tilts her chin up, and Gwendolyn meets her with a kiss so gentle it makes Mildred’s hands shake. She brings those trembling fingers to the gossamer-silk of Gwendolyn’s hair, presses them gently against her scalp. 

The song ends and they pull apart, each sighing in the silence. 

“Oh,” Gwendolyn half-laughs, and Mildred swipes her thumbs across Gwendolyn’s cheeks with an indulgent smile. 

The doorbell rings, and they both jump slightly, fix each other with equally confused looks. Gwendolyn takes her hand and leads her to the front door, gasps in delight when she recognizes the face on the other side of the glass. 

“Maxwell!” 

He grins, holding up paper bags that look heavier than he should be carrying. Mildred goes to reach for one, but he ducks away, allows her to guide him inside instead. “Groceries for the Briggs Mothers,” he announces, moving towards the kitchen with practiced ease. 

Mildred locks the door behind them, follows Maxwell with a hand at Gwendolyn’s elbow. “We didn’t know you were home for break,” she says, voice pitched a little higher in excitement. 

“Got back in last night,” Maxwell grins. 

“Do you need a place to stay? We’ll need to wash the sheets, but—“ 

“Stayin’ with someone,” Maxwell interrupts, his cheeks a little red. 

Gwendolyn nudges him with her shoulder as she pulls a bundle of vegetables from the bag. “Did you get yourself a new sweetheart?” 

He groans. “Ma!” 

Gwendolyn laughs and kisses his cheek. He leans into her. 

“You didn’t have to do this,” Mildred chides gently as she comes to his side, squeezes at his arm. “You’ll come to dinner on Sunday?” 

“Can I bring the boy?”

“Of course, lovely,” Mildred answers. He grins. 

“Yeah, Sunday,” he says wistfully. For a moment, Mildred can see his 16-year-old self, shivering in their front hall after they found him with no jacket in torrential downpour. How different he looks now, self-assured, confident. 

“Listen, I gotta get going and write my paper,” he says, presses a kiss to each of their cheeks. “But I’ll be back on Sunday. 5pm? Should I bring anything?”

“5pm,” Gwendolyn confirms, wraps an arm around Mildred’s waist. “Flowers, if you must. Marianna is already bringing wine.” 

“Ooh,” Maxwell grins, “I haven’t seen her in forever!” 

“Yes, well,” Mildred chuckles, “her hair has grown quite a bit. You’ll be jealous.” 

He squeezes each of their hands. “You two stay warm, it’s cold today.” He pauses for a second. “Can we have a fire on Sunday?” He sounds very young all of a sudden. 

Gwendolyn brushes the hair off his forehead. “Of course, my little man,” she coos, and he closes his eyes, savors the attention. Mildred smiles and tugs him down to her for a kiss to the forehead. 

“Get,” she says fondly, pats his cheek. “I want to hear all about this paper later. When you’ve finished it.” 

“Yes ma’am,” he says, fake salutes. 

Gwendolyn and Mildred wave him off, turn to each other with a smile. “We’d better go get some firewood, then.” 

Mildred leans against Gwendolyn and closes her eyes. “Later. I think I could do with a warm snuggle and a movie.” 

“That sounds utterly perfect, my love.” She pulls Mildred inside with another kiss to the forehead, guides her to the couch before turning off the Panasonic. 

1981 brings a cold end-of-year, but it’s warm inside the Briggs household, and family dinners only grow as the Sundays move towards Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Mildred and Gwen adopted all the gaybies kicked out by their own families. And yeah, they danced to Stevie Nicks. They're soft old women. 
> 
> This is the REAL end of TGTYEL, but don't worry, I'm not stopping any time soon. I've got a list of requests to work through, some missing scenes to write, and two more AUs. 
> 
> Love y'all, see you in 2021 ;) <3


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